Grow Together
by Miss Scarlett 05
Summary: Pre-epilogue Mockingjay. How Katniss and Peeta slowly pick up the pieces and begin again. My version of a fourth book for the Hunger Games series. Secret toastings, lots of plotting, crass drunk Haymitch and even a cake scene.
1. Chapter 1: Letters to Katniss

**Author's note:**

_I adored the Hunger Games trilogy. Suzanne Collins created such a rich and wonderful world and I'd love to spend more time there and see what happens to Katniss and Peeta. But the trilogy is finished, Katniss has had her adventures and now her story is more of a romance. So here's my dreamed up version of what happened after Peeta came home and planted the primrose bushes._

* * *

Through the windows I see that is pouring rain outside—definitely not a hunting day. Greasy Sae cleans the breakfast dishes while I plop down on the couch and decide what exactly I should do today. My list doesn't get much further than sleep and wonder what's for dinner.

Peeta gives up on meticulously picking at his eggs and gives Greasy Sae his bowl. He walks over to an armchair by the couch, pausing at the mantle and the accumulating mountain of letters.

"What's this?" he asks.

I shrug.

"Maybe you should go through this."

I respond with a scowl.

Peeta sits on the floor and starts sorting the letters.

It's probably as good of time as any to see who's written me so I sit on the other side of the stack.

The first letter is from Dr. Aurelius. As I skim through the pile, I realize I better start a stack for all the letters from him and my mother. Peeta seems to be using the stack and sort method too.

"Katniss, have you opened any of these since you've been home?"

I stare at the floor and have no interest in the letters. I don't want happy letters—don't deserve them and don't understand how anyone could truly be happy after all the death and destruction the war caused. I don't want the sad letters, because I don't want a reminder. And, I don't want to make the effort. I just want to be left alone, but since that's not going so well at the moment, I do make the effort, but decide not to do it happily.

I scan the pile for something that looks remotely interesting: a letter from Delly, some government correspondence, letters from reporters probably wanting interviews and then I see it—a letter addressed in Peeta's careful hand. The handwriting is small, precise and has a newfound twitchy quality. I spot another, then another and put them in my lap for a time when I feel braver.

I wonder if they're love letters, angry tirades or just brutally honest accounts of my flaws. I stare at Peeta and wonder if I look hard enough at him if I can tell without opening the letters.

His stacks are neatly arranged, but a white corner pokes out from under his black boots and gives away a pile he's trying to conceal.

"You wrote me?" I ask.

"Oh, it's nothing," he replies. "Part of my therapy. We can just tear them up."

He's blushing, embarrassed but curiosity has the better of me and I won't let him destroy them. I want to yank the letters out of his hands but don't want to provoke him into throwing them in the fire.

"Please," I say.

Reluctantly he hands them over and I sit on them before he can change his mind. We sort in silence until every letter is in its place.

Peeta thinks I should read the doctor's letters first. I'm in a contrary mood so I decide to call the doctor's office. Surely that will take less time than reading pages and pages of medical advice, therapies and diagnosis of my various psychoses. The doctor seems relieved that I'm alive and finally going through my mail. He says it's a step in the right direction. He tells me some things to do, asks me if I want to talk (I don't) and then gives Peeta some instructions.

While Peeta talks to the doctor, I read an upbeat letter from Delly. She's still in 13 and thinking about coming back to 12 as soon as the town's more rebuilt. She sends her love, tells me I'm amazing and that she'll do anything she can to help. My mother's letters tell me about her setting up a hospital, about District Four and the seafood she's never eaten before. She asks me if I'm eating and says that she calls Greasy Sae to check on me. If the president will ever let me out of 12, I should visit her at the beach. When Peeta isn't looking I hide his stack of letters under a couch cushion. If he doesn't want me seeing them, I'm determined to read them.

"You're doing great," he tells me when he gets off the phone. "Dr. A is going to send you treatments and call you weekly. You need to open letters and packages from him. He can really work wonders, you know."

Coming from the man who tried to strangle me a few months ago, I have to consider this.

Silence follows and I ask Peeta how he's doing.

"Much better than that first night in District 13," he said.

I touch my neck, where those black bruises stayed for months. "You're eyes aren't as cloudy."

Peeta explains that he went though a lot of therapy, a lot of talking with Dr. A, figuring out what real, what memories were tampered with and what triggers his episodes. He says the letters were part of the therapy. Dr. A made him write down his questions so I could answer them. They discussed the games based on the videos and Peeta's memories are gradually coming back. He says his episodes can be controlled—he can sometimes feel them coming on—but won't ever go away.

"Prim tried so hard to help you when we first got you back," I tell him.

Guilt, shame, dread—while my sister was helping I ran away. I should help him, but my stomach tightens and I get slightly dizzy when I think of the questions I'll have to answer.

When the rain stops, Peeta goes to pick up a shipment of medicine the doctor sent over from the Capitol. I pull the letters from under the cushion and read his letters starting with the oldest first.

_Dear Katniss,_

_I heard you're back home in District 12. I'm in the Capitol until Dr. Aurelius clears me. I miss home and hope you're doing well. I worry about you. We probably have a lot to talk about. I'll be home when I can._

_Don't give Haymitch pneumonia. _

_Peeta_

_PS Thanks for saving me_.

_Dear Katniss,_

_My therapy would go so much quicker if I could talk to you. We've tried calling you, but you don't answer. Please pick up. I'm just trying to make sense of things._

_Peeta_

_Dear Katniss,_

_Today as part of my treatment I rewatched the Quarter Quell—not the doctored version the Capitol showed me afterwards. _

_Thank you for helping me through the poison fog and not leaving me. Thank you for trying to save me from the monkeys._

_I wish I could thank Finnick for saving my life when he rescued me from the platform, restarted my heart, drug me through the fog and took a knife from the careers for me. He was a great guy. (And I'm sorry you had to watch that.)_

_I'm so sorry we didn't break the alliance when you suggested it. I'm sorry I let them separate us._

_When you're up to it, maybe we can talk about the games so I can know what really happened._

_Peeta_

_Dear Katniss,_

_I hope to be coming home soon. It's not that the Capitol hospital isn't great, but I miss home. I miss baking and even my oversized Victor's Village home. I haven't seen District 12 since before it _

_was bombed, so I want to see my family's bakery one more time. _

_I hope that you're staying out of trouble—not slipping on ice or being chased by bears._

_We talk about you in my therapy: what's real and not real. I was getting a good handle on it before the end_ of the war, but Dr. A is helping with the flashbacks. _They come less often now and we're finding out what my triggers are. (Please note that I never want to see a tracker jacker again!)_

_Today I wanted to talk about that last mission. You wouldn't leave me behind. You stroked my hair, like you did in our cave in the first games. I remember those games more accurately now. And you kissed me. Which after I tried to strangle you never thought would happen again. You saved me Katniss. You saved me from myself, from the Capitol from death and not just that time, but so many times._

_Dr. A says you're not answering the phone. He's also been sending letters without a response. I hope everything is ok._

_Peeta_

_Dear Katniss,_

_Today I have questions about the first Hunger Games. I asked you before why you didn't look sincere, if you liked kissing me if you loved me. That conversation didn't go very well and I still have questions._

_The general consensus is that a person that would risk their life to save mine probably wasn't trying to kill me. _

_So, why did you drop the tracker jackers on me? I think you said before my group had you treed and that time you were trying to kill me. Why?_

_Dr. A says you might not have known I was trying to protect you then. So what changed between that day and when you came and found me?_

_ Did you plan of it being us two in the end? Did you really leave me for the mutts to kill me? Why did you wrap my leg in the tourniquet? Why did you offer me those berries? Did you think we would both win, that we would both die as painlessly as possible? I think I remember you saying "Trust me" so maybe you had a plan._

_ You said you liked kissing me some times. What times? How much of it was an act? But we both survived and for that I'm happy._

_ I must have loved you then. They say I was trying to protect you. And when we were last in the Capitol you said that's what we do. Maybe I should have protected you more._

_ I asked you if you loved me and you didn't say yes or no. Dr. A says you might now know yourself. He reminds me that you're a 17-year-old girl who has lived a hard life, who has been in survival mode for years. Finnick even told me one night that he thought you loved me._

_How I wonder what we had. _

_ I've lost a leg, been tortured, been burned and driven mad. But what about you? You were burned, driven mad and the whole nation witnessed the trial of the poor girl-on-fire so mad she shot the wrong president. Only, you looked sane when I saw you that morning. After the shot, though, you reminded me of myself when I have my flashbacks._

_ Katniss, I'm glad you didn't take the nightlock. I have so many questions._

_Always,_

_Peeta_

When I wake up Peeta's letters are scattered over the couch. I roll over to find one wrinkled beneath me. I replace them under the cushion so they don't end up in the fire. Peeta is snoring lightly in the chair across from me and I rise and walk with a hunter's stealth and cover him with a blanket. I pause to look at the patchwork skin of his hands and neck. What an odd damaged pair we are.

He's brought a box back from the train station. It's filled with baking supplies, letters and medications for both of us.

Greasy Sae is at the door and I point at sleeping Peeta.

She hands me a large pot of stew and asks me to make sure my houseguest eats.

"I'll be back in the morning. And I'm putting in an order for groceries, is there anything you need?"

I would eat whatever she made, but decide that there is one thing that Peeta needs. She gives me a sly wink and is off to her house.

In the box, I find new letter from Dr. A.

_Katniss,_

_I've discharged Peeta to District 12. I was hoping you could help me keep an eye on him. Make sure he eats, keeps busy and has someone to talk to. If you could listen to him and try your best to answer his questions, it would help both of you. If he feels an attack coming on, he might ask for help or space, but you should be safe. Also, if either of you get worse or if you can't handle living close to Peeta, call me immediately. I'm always a phone call or letter away if either of you need anything. _

_Dr. Aurelius_

_PS I'm sending over some pills_.

I don't want the pills. I'm not sure what to think about Peeta being home—sleeping in my living room. I don't know what to do about all the letters, about living without my mother. And I wonder if it's all too much.

Peeta's fists rise slowly into the air. "What smells so good?"

I bring him a bowl of stew not really knowing what to say. Really, I'm just tired and want to go to sleep. But after weeks of sleeping on the couch, I know better than to fall asleep here. Instead I sit on the floor and stare at the fire.

"You can ask me one question," I say with my back to him. "I know you have questions, but I'm tired and I'm sure they're going to be things I don't want to talk about."

Peeta joins me on the floor and puts the blanket over my legs.

"Okay. One question," he considers. "How are you? I mean what have you been up to all these weeks?"

I'm not sure if that's two questions but it's not the questions about kisses for show and shooting presidents that I don't want to answer, so I'll try.

"I'm tired," I say. "But all I do is sleep. I don't know what I'm doing, what I'm supposed to do, what I want to do."

I play with the edge of the blanket and try not to look in his eyes. I don't want his concern or pity. I'm not even sure I want his company, but this is probably better than the weeks I spent in the training room prison.

In his silence, I continue. "I was like my mother. I stayed on that couch and barely moved."

"Well, let's keep busy," Peeta says.

The phone rings and Peeta answers it. Maybe he knows I won't.

"Yes, I'm home. Just got in a few days ago. So far so good."

"We just had dinner. She actually read some of her mail today."

"I think she's doing great." Then he hands the phone over to me. "Your mother wants to talk to you."

"Hello?"

"Hi Katniss. How are you doing?" mother asks.

"Okay," I say after a pause and tell her about the rainy day.

"Peeta answered the phone. Are you two okay? He's not upsetting you is he?"

"I don't know," I respond. I wonder if the company is good for me. And then think company is probably why he's over here. He misses his family. Haymitch and me are all the family he has in District 12 now.

"Is there anything you need?" she asks. "I can have supplies sent over on a train from the Capitol."

I tell her that I've given Sae my grocery list, but could probably use some salve for my skin. "Hey Peeta, mother wants to know if you need anything," I say without thinking.

He comes back to the phone and asks for some baking supplies that weren't in his box from earlier. And though I'm not really listening I think he's telling my mother what he needs to take care of me.

Good luck with that.

While Peeta's on the phone, I go to bed. I don't know if he plans on staying.

After a night spent dreaming of mutts and strangling, I go downstairs and find him asleep on the couch, covered in letters. At first, I think he's reading my letters, but remember our long ago no-secrets pact and decide that there are worse things he could do than read my mail. Besides, maybe then I won't have to read all those letters. But the letter it looks like he fell asleep reading is addressed to him.

_Peeta,_

_Call me Tuesdays and Thursdays at 7:30 for therapy sessions. I'll send the pills as you need them and call or write if you need anything else._

_Make sure she's eating_

_If she's sleeping too much, she should take the green pills._

_Can you try to get her to write or call me once a week?_

_If she'll talk to you, that's the best therapy. But don't push too hard._

_Dr. A._

So, Dr. A has also made us a double-deal? I guess that's better than Haymitch. Some job of keeping an eye on me he's done.

* * *

**Note:** This chapter inspired by the pile of unopened letters referenced on page 381 of MJ. Who wrote all of those letters? Peeta of course.


	2. Chapter 2: Let Me Help You

Playlist: I'm Still Around by Five Eight

* * *

Mornings are the worst for me. Some nights I run through so many nightmares I wake completely exhausted. It's so hard to get up so I haven't been. I should want to hunt—but don't really have a family to provide for anymore.

Sae brings breakfast and my stomach overrides my anxious head. Peeta, in yesterday's clothes, eats his food more quietly than yesterday. "Why did I wake up at your house this morning?"

I shrug and concentrate on my plate. "I think you just fell while you were reading some of your mail."

"Oh." He's having trouble looking me in the eye.

"That's it."

He finishes his breakfast in silence. I stare out the window at nothing in particular.

"I was thinking about making cookies today. Do you want to help?" he asks me.

In truth, I've resolved to stare out the window all day, maybe take a nap—definitely not leave the house. But, I'm supposed to stay busy and I can't remember the last time I had a cookie, so I bite. "I guess," I say as unenthusiastically as possible.

Most of the ingredients are in his house, but he have to borrow butter from Sae. She obliges and asks if her granddaughter can have a few when we're done.

We mix the flour, butter, sugar and eggs together. I'm content eating the dough, but Peeta says that a real baker wouldn't stick their finger in the batter and lick it.

The cookies bake to golden perfection. Peeta makes a frosting bag with a tip for me and shows me how to squeeze and write with frosting.

He writes a K for Katniss on one of the cookies.

I try to frost an arrow. It looks like a blurry pine tree. Zig zags are easier so I make a lot of crazy looking cookies before I decide I'm utterly horrible at frosting and just watch Peeta. I marvel at his concentration and find myself staring at his eyelashes once again.

He decorates his cookies in everything from precise polka dots to waves to daisies. "Just seeing if I remember," he smiles.

When all the cookies are frosted, Peeta takes the prettiest ones to Sae's granddaughter. She lights up. And for a few minutes that small act makes me happy.

It's a short-lived feeling as our next stop is Haymitch's rancid house. "You should have frosted a flask cookie for him," I mutter to Peeta as we stand in the doorway plotting a course through the debris of the last few weeks.

Haymitch is in usual state, passed out in a drunken stupor.

Peeta pokes around in his fireplace until the fire restarts. I make coffee and wash the coffee cups.

Peeta forbids me from pouring ice water on him, despite my protests that it would be funny and well-deserved. While Peeta sorts his mail, I check his liquor supply and make sure I won't have to face Haymitch on withdrawal anytime soon.

I'm not sure if Haymitch really has a taste for frosted cookies, but I place the plate on his table.

"We brought you something," Peeta says coldly after Haymitch finally stirs.

"Oh, I have the pair of you today. So what are we today? Star crossed lovers? Enemies? Just two kids from 12?"

"Yes, you have the pair of us. Have you checked on Katniss once since she's been here?" There's a frightening repressed rage in Peeta voice.

"She's still here. Looks fine," he huffs.

"I just wanted to say thanks," Peeta says as he walks toward the door. He touches my arm for me to follow.

"Fine!" Haymitch stands loudly shaking the table. "At least I didn't get her drunk."

"Well that's a relief," Peeta says and slams the door behind him. I should follow but I'm frozen in place.

Haymitch looks at me. "Let's you and me take a walk, kid," he says in a low voice.

"You okay that he's home?" he inquires after a spell.

I nod tentatively. "I think it helps," I say quietly as to not readily admit it out loud.

"He came home for you," Haymitch says. "He could have stayed in the Capitol, gotten a job anywhere else, but he wanted to make things right with you."

"I know," I mouth, not sure the words actually escape my mouth.

"If he makes your worse, you tell me," he looks into my eyes. And I feel like, for the first time since we've been home he is looking out for me.

We walk the rest of the trip to the train station in silence. And I look the other way while Haymitch buys some liquor from the train attendant

Peeta is washing dishes when I come back to his house. I could have gone home, but instead I help him dry the dishes. When we're done, he looks at me questioningly. "Is this what we did before?"

All I can do is shake my head. "Not really. We only had a few days like this. We were always too busy trying to stay alive."

"This feels like what we did before," he sighs. "Only with more of our friends and family."

He's waiting for more. I settle on the floor by the fireplace and think through what I should say. It hurts so much to remember, though. Maybe he's better off not knowing how cruel I can be. He sees that I'm shaking.

Let's start at the beginning," he urges. "What happened when we got home from the games?"

I rub my neck nervously. "We ignored each other until the victory tour. I didn't speak to you until the day of the tour."

"I remember some of the tour," he says vacantly. He doesn't elaborate so I'm relieved.

"We were a little more normal for a few months when we came home." The shaking eases up some. "I was on bed rest after hurting my heel. We worked on my family's plant book. You drew, I wrote. You brought me cheese buns. Then they announced the quell and you insisted on training. So that's it."

A girl who has defied death so many times shouldn't have trouble telling a story, but I feel like I've survived an attack from the careers after saying these few vague words. The attack might even have been easier.

He asks me a few real or not real questions—really outrageous about things the Capitol told him I did. I tried shooting him with my bow when we got home for the games—not real. I took some poisonous herbs from my mother and put them in his tea just to see what would happen to him—not real.

One more thing is bugging him though. "So why didn't we speak for all those months?"

"I'd like to say shock," I said. "We were both still alive. But really you were mad at me."

"Why?"

I tell myself I owe it to him. I don't want to talk about it. Maybe he can ask Haymitch. My hands go to my temples. My eyes start to water. It's too much.

"Because you were madly in love with me and I was confused."

"And now we're both confused." I run out the door unable to answer any more of his questions.

"Katniss, stay," I hear Peeta call after me.

I lock the door to my house behind me because I don't want to wake up with him on my couch. I fall asleep in a closet where he can't find me.

The next day is a blur. At dinnertime I realize I haven't eaten and am starving. I try to get up, but just feel like crying or screaming.

There's a familiar knock on the door. "Katniss, are you in here?"

No answer.

"If you are, I brought you dinner."

This makes me want to sob even more. I fight back tears and I make just enough noise for him to hear me.

"Are you ok?"

Please go away, I think as loudly as I can. "I'm staying here until you take this food." The plate clanks as he sits it on the floor. Too much silence passes. "Katniss, you're not hurting yourself are you?" he's starting to sound frightened, so with a momentous effort I rise and unlock the door. I shrink down in the farthest corner hugging my knees to my chest.

He sits down and props his back against the doorframe. "What's wrong?"

I shake my head because I don't know what's wrong. I wouldn't know where to begin with all of the reasons why I'm upset but at this very moment no one thing comes to mind.

"What will make you feel better?"

Again, I don't know. I've had such few clear moments in recent months.

He makes me eat dinner. My dark mood lightens slightly.

"Have you taken your medicine today?"

"I forgot."

He shakes his head and goes downstairs to fetch my pills. I consider locking him out but don't have the energy to move. The pills are supposed to help with my moods, my nightmares, the stress. I don't trust them. He brings back a glass of water and more pills than normal. I obediently take them but I don't feel instantly better so I'm disappointed and am not in the mood for Peeta's admonitions.

"Hey," he says leaning in to me. "I know about your hiding spots, the not eating—all of it. Katniss, it's ok to be upset but we've got to get you better. Let me help you."

"Why! Why do you care?" I almost scream. "Why are you trying to help me?" I don't deserve it.

"It's what we do." His sincere answer shuts me up. It's true.

"I don't know what to do," I say weakly.

"Staying busy helps, Katniss. Write letters. Hunt. I'll teach you to bake. Heck, you could even offer to clean Haymitch's house for all I care, just do something."

"Ok." I agree to try—not to cleaning Haymitch's house, of course. "I think I'm going to bed now."

Peeta insists on clean pajamas and stays to tuck me in. He turns to leave, and from under the blankets I ask, "How do I know you won't hurt me?"

A heartbreakingly sad looks comes across his face. He sits down in a chair next to the bed. "I'm so sorry." He's almost in tears. "Katniss, that wasn't me."

I feel bad for even bringing it up. "I know it wasn't you, but still."

"That's part of the reason the doctors kept me so long." He touches my cheek. It's so intimate alarm bells go off in my head.

After so much isolation I don't know how to react. Yet, the touch is gentle, not angry. In it is a hint of the kind boy that risked so much for me.

His hand, soft and cool, lingers for a few seconds as I study him. "Goodnight." He turns to go.

I extend my arm when he's standing in the doorway. "St—," I stop myself, hoping he doesn't see the hurt and longing in my eyes. "Good night," I say into the blankets below my chin.

The front door creaks close. I'm alone again, alone with my nightmares.


	3. Chapter 3: Sleep Talking

Peeta is standing over me, one arm stretched out to me. I flinch, then take in the sunlight coming from my bedroom window and the pills and water in his hand, and let myself relax.

Swallowing the pills is easy, pulling myself out of the warmth of my bed is not. I pull the covers over my head and hope my visitor will take the hint. He patiently sits in the chair and offers me breakfast. I refuse. He persists and I eat a piece of bread.

My bladder is the only reason I finally leave the bed. Peeta blocks the path back to my bed and hands me my hunting boots. He's probably not going to leave until I'm out of the house.

I trudge to my hunting spot hoping my head will be less foggy when I wake up. The day progresses but my head doesn't clear. Shooting is out of the question so I dig some onions and pick some wild dill. The days are getting warmer, I'm dressed in long sleeves and I'm freezing. My skin feels like it's on fire.

I make it home though, barely. I mean to call my mother but go to bed before dinner and don't get to the living room again that night.

Peeta brings me dinner that night. I throw the blanket over my head. He only leaves after I drink a glass of water and eat a roll.

It's the same the next day. I'm forced out of bed into activity. The saving grace of the morning was Buttercup hissing at Peeta when he wanted to me to get up. He ignored my protests, saying the activity good for me. Today I feel worse, though. Out of habit I take my bow, I know my hands aren't steady enough to use it. I'm shivering, though the sun is shining. I think I'm sick, but it's been so long since I've been well that I'm not sure. I count on my fingers; it's been over eight months since I wasn't mentally disoriented, in and out of the hospital or a "shell-shocked lunatic."

I'm in the middle of a tall grove of trees. Looking at the tops of the trees makes me dizzy. A mockingjay calls and all I can think of is Prim and those tortured screams from the arena. They can't hurt her now. I know that. I also know that I need to get up because there is no one to rescue me. I'm in a spot only Gale knows and am borderline delirious. Maybe Haymitch should have put that transmitter in my skull. Then I could call for help, but he'd still be drunk. So having my skull intact works for me.

One foot in front of the other, slowly I make my way out of the woods and back to town. I get as far as Peeta's house and slump on his couch.

He pulls a hot loaf of bread from the oven. It smells like the dill I left on the counter at my house yesterday. He putters around his kitchen bakery for a few minutes before checking on me.

"Katniss, you don't look so good," he exclaims.

My eyes are half open. "I need my mother," I plead before falling asleep.

Peeta sits at the desk talking to my mother. I'm on my couch now. There's some flour on one of my sleeves.

"Tell her I have a fever. And maybe a sunburn or poison ivy."

He talks to my mother for a few more minutes, looking at me and answering her questions.

His hand touches my forehead. "You are burning up." He takes my arm like a child and rolls up my sleeves. "Katniss! This is not good," he yells at me.

Peeta doesn't yell at me. Maybe it's happened more in the last year, but this isn't the voice of mutt Peeta, he's concerned.

"Your skin grafts are too dry and in terrible shape. We should get you to the hospital."

I look up at him with lost eyes. "I can't leave."

He storms out of the room. I want to tell him that I've asked for some salve, that my skin was shredded and never treated during my trial and that I'll do a better job of caring for my skin. But I hate the new skin. I just want normal skin.

Peeta's talking about damaged grafts, infection, rejection and scarring as he comes back into the front door carrying a box that clangs when he walks.

I roll up my pant leg. My skin is looking worse than it should, if that's even possible. He pulls a jar of salve out of the box. I reach for it. "Let me," he says.

He rubs the mint-smelling cream onto my calves, then forearms. His fingertips send shivers up my arms and to my chest. The shivers turn to goosebumps. I'm sick so I blame the cold chills.

He's calmer now and looks me in the eye. "Since we can't get you to the hospital, you'll need injections to stop the infection before it gets worse. They sent me home with some in case I got sick. Your mother says they'll work for you and she'll have some medicine sent over here as soon as she can. I wouldn't hesitate to give them to you Katniss, but needles triggers my flashbacks. You should know that."

He swallows some pills. "I should be okay, but I'm usually really tired afterward so don't worry about me."

The syringes appear. "I'll do it," I say and try to take them from him. He must be channeling my distant mother because he gives me three shots exactly the way a doctor would.

The last needle is withdrawn from my thigh and his hands start to twitch. He grasps the arm of the couch and I can tell he's trying so hard to fight it. He scrunches his face in agony and finally, exhausted from collapses on the lower part of the couch.

The phone rings and rings, but between my fever and Peeta lying on top of my legs, I can't get up so the phone goes unanswered. Our wild night includes night sweats, nightmares screaming and me thrashing.

The phone rings again in the morning and this time Peeta, who somehow ended up on the floor, wakes up in time to answer sleepily.

"I'm glad her mother called you. She's running a fever…Yes she had three injections…Okay I'll do that…I know she hates talking…Let me take care of her and what time is good to call you back. Okay. I'll probably be here today and tomorrow. No, I'm good, I think. Don't call Haymitch if I don't answer. She's got a neighbor that checks on her twice a day. Ok. I'll call then."

I drift back to sleep and wake up on my stomach with a cold square of moist bandage being applied to one of the sicklier looking spots on my back. I feel another cold bandage on my calf, where an especially big piece of new grafted skin had flaked off. Peeta rolls me over and gets the third spot on the upper part of my arm.

I'm woozy and feel like we're in the cave again. Only I'm the one with the fever.

"Hey," he says when I stir hours later. "Your fever's broken. Think you can eat?"

He hands me a bowl of broth. It's yellow and each spoonful tastes like chicken. He comes and sits next to me. "I remember the cave," he says ever so quietly. "You brought me back to life."

"I have these shiny memories of you….," he shakes his head. "Breaking my fingers in my sleep and much worse, but that's not what happened?"

No. I shake my head. He asks a few more simple questions. I know the questions will only get harder and that we'll have to painfully go through them. Since that conversation ended civilly it's probably a good time to pretend to fall asleep again.

He pats my leg and calls the doctor back.

I wonder if the doctor feels like the glorified babysitter of two very crazy kids. I hope they're paying him well. For as sane as he's made Peeta, they should.

It must be one of Peeta's therapy sessions because he talks for the next hour. He talks about being so alone without his family, how he can't bare his empty house and how I locked myself in a closet when he asked me a question.

I listen closer to see what the doctor says. "As much as she would like you to think she's tough, she's really sensitive and guarded. You'll be lucky to get one answer out of her at a time. What were you asking her about?"

"Apparently I didn't talk to her for almost six months after we won the games and I'm not sure why."

"So you were mad at her and she doesn't want to talk about it?"

"Well, when you put it like that, maybe that doesn't sound so bad. Maybe I'll ask Haymitch."

"Just be careful, she's fragile right now."

Peeta laughs. "She's such a survivor. It's funny to think of her as fragile."

After the phone call, Peeta busies himself in my kitchen making my house smell like fresh baked bread.

I decide to do something other than eavesdrop and sleep and decide to start on those letters again.

"Where should I start?" I ask to no one in particular.

Buttercup chooses this moment to sit on a stack of letters from friends. The first one is from Johanna. It's her new address. Should I have expected anything else? I write her back and tell her that I'm home in 12 that Peeta is home too and we're driving each other crazy. She'll like that.

Next letter is from Octavia who also sends her new address and tells me all about the changes in the capitol and to let her know if I need makeup help.

I don't know what to write her back, so next is a package from Flavius who has sent me some purple lipstick to cheer me up. It should go perfectly with my grey skin and green complexion.

There's a stack of letters from writers and reporters. I ignore all except for a letter jointly from Cressida and Pollux who want to check in on us—for television of course. That one goes in to the 'not sure' pile too.

Plutarch asks when he can come film. Ick. I think. I write back that I'm sick and need new skin grafts and maybe later. I hope that grosses him out enough that I am not camera ready.

Peeta comes over to check on my bandages. They stay on another day then I need to soak my skin in the tub, followed my lots of salve.

It's late so I fall asleep. Peeta takes the chair instead of the floor.

Tonight's nightmare is about being hunted by camera crews. I'm not the only one with bad dreams. "Please, no more venom." Peeta thrashes. "I know she's a mutt. AUGH."

Not really sure if it's a good idea, I take his hand. He squeezes my hand back, wakes up looks around goes back to sleep clutching my hand so hard I can't move. I spend the rest of the night uncomfortably propped against the chair.

I wake to find Peeta's eyebrows arched in a perplexed look. "Uh, Katniss. Why are you sitting there?"

"Ugh, something about 'no more venom,'" I mumble into the upholstery of the chair.

Before I can protest, I'm whisked up the stairs and deposited in the bed. He brings me breakfast on a tray and tells me I should be on the mend if I can just take it easy today.

It's raining again and the constant lull of rain on the roof makes it impossible to do anything but rest.

I smell baking bread and spy Peeta standing in the doorway. "I used to sketch in here?"

"Yes," I beam. "My family's plant book. That's what we worked on when I was on bed-rest that month."

He sits on the bed while I tell him about his visits. He won't let me up to get the plant book so I tell him that I think I saw it in a closet with my dad's hunting jacket.

Peeta lies on his stomach on the farthest edge of the bed and spends the afternoon tracing the plant drawings with his fingers. His brows are locked in concentration.

This goes on for a while. Without a word, he leaves the room and brings back a sketchbook. He flips it open to a page. He's drawn Prim attending to him in the hospital in District 13.

I go to place the page in the plant book. "She deserves so much more than a page," I tell him. Peeta lets me look through his sketchbook. It's full of pictures of his family, Finnick, Boggs—I wish I could give them all a page. I ask Peeta about making a new memory book. He seems to like the idea.

In the evening, it's time to soak the burn bandages I run a bath while he's in the other room. I check the box of supplies and add some medical salts to the water.

I close the door before he can come in, but his familiar knock lets me know that's not part of his plan. I let him check the bandages and order him out of the room.

He seems genuinely concerned, so as a concession, I unlock the closed door while he sits on the other side.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" he questions. "I was thinking about baking, but maybe sketching sounds good," he continues on about sketches of the games, nightmares, nurses... I half-listen.

When my fingers resemble plump pink prunes, I peel of the slimy bandages.

"You doing okay in there, Katniss?"

"Fine," I say. "What do I do about these bandages?"

He tells me that if the skin looks okay I just need to keep salve on it, but that he wants to inspect the areas first. I dry off and dress before he enters. His hands are warm when he applies salve to my patchwork. He starts at my shoulders and works his way down my arms and to the exposed skin on my back. I thought my fever had broken, but I still get goosebumps when he touches me.

After I dry my hair, I'm surprised that he's still around. Dr. Mellark is free from his medical duties, but he's watching television in the living room.

I stand in the doorway and see my flickering coal costume from the Quarter Quell. I take a seat on the other side of the couch quietly.

"I've never seen this," I tell a transfixed Peeta.

"I've seen several versions," he says with a sad look in his blue eyes.

I don't know how to respond, so I just watch. Peeta skips over the interviews and I'm relieved not to have to talk about wedding dresses and babies.

The tape comes to the day of the Quell. I think of Cinna's beating and clutch my knees to my chest.

He must have caught my moment of anguish, because Peeta sends me an inquisitive look.

"Cinna," I begin. "The morning of, they froze me in the tube and made me watch while they beat Cinna bloody with spiked gloves."

He starts the video from the moment we're standing on our plates in the water-filled arena. I'm startled at how quickly I regain my composure after Cinna's beating and watch as the tributes swim toward the Cornucopia.

"Look at you," Peeta marvels as Finnick and I defend the Cornucopia. "We didn't stand a chance."

Finnick rescues Peeta off the plate and our group starts up into the jungle.

At some point I feel my hand grasp his. I beg him to skip the next scene. "Please, no."

After a long look into my eyes, he obliges. He's trying to figure something out.

"They said my heart stopped."

Silent nod.

I close my eyes until the Peeta on the screen in revived.

"This is much more puzzling," he freezes the frame on my tears. "This is not the same girl as in the first games."

I shake my head.

"One of these days, you're going to tell me what changed."

We watch the rest of the games. He grips my hand tighter and the TV shows me forcing him through the fog, diving in front of a mutt monkey for him. When it comes time for the beach scene where he gives me the locket, I tell him we don't need to see it, but I don't object when he watches it anyway. And I remember that girl, determined to get him out of the arena alive, even if it meant her own—my own—life.

The replay shows him giving me the pearl.

"I lost it in the fire bombing that day in the Capitol," I admit.

"That's too bad," he shrugs.

When it comes to the part where Johanna hits me and cuts my arm, Peeta touches the apple-sized scar, now riddled with white and pink burn marks.

"That was an excellent hit," I say. "That concussion put me in the hospital and left me confused for months."

On screen the arena blows up and the tape ends without commentary. I know that at any second the questions will start.

But his first question isn't what I expect.

"This?" he motions to our entwined hands. "This is how we watched the first games?"

I nod.

"Was it for show?"

I take several moments to calmly choose my words. This is a conversation that has to happen. Though I want to run away, scream at him I persist. "It was the only thing keeping me in the chair, keeping me from running off the stage."

"Okay," he accepts my answer. He takes a moment to consider.

"And that video, that's how you remember the quell?" he asks.

I nod.

"Did you know?"

"No idea."

"Haymitch told me afterward that you didn't know. I wasn't sure I could believe him," Peeta says. "How did you know to blow out the force field?"

I want to tell him that it's the same as the berries—that I didn't really know.

"Beetee had the wire on his knife. I think he electrocuted himself trying to blow the force field himself."

Do I tell him that I thought he might be far enough from the explosion to live from the explosion I was sure I'd die from?

"Why were you calling my name?" he asks.

"Why were you calling mine," I deflect.

"Katniss, I'm trying to remember."

"Okay," I say sternly, then tell him about the double-deal with Haymitch.

"You two and your secrets," he scoffs.

"I could say the same thing."

We're each a little angry with the other, but I'm not yelling or storming out so I count it as progress.

I continue the story from the explosion when I woke up in a hovercraft. I leave out the bit about looking for him with a syringe.

"I was really happy when I heard you were alive," I offer.

Apparently Haymitch has told him this part because he's heard about my various breakdowns before. One less embarrassing thing to tell him, I think.

I want to know what happened to him. But maybe I don't.

He says goodnight and returns to his house. I stay on the couch, feeling a little emptier. I pull a blanket around me and shift myself on the cushions until I can find a softer spot.

The door clicks again and I hear footsteps come to the couch.

"I was worried about you." I stare at him through slowly shutting lids. "Maybe I should keep an eye on you tonight."

When I don't object, he moves the coffee table and puts some pillows and blankets from the hall closet on the floor.

He knows my fever has broken and that I'm fine. My guess is he didn't want to face his empty house. Yet he chose to come home to his empty house, not live in a new district with a new friend. I can understand why he didn't go back to 13 or the Capitol. I'd probably do the same thing.

Tonight's nightmares are of Peeta dying, brandishing his knife over and over again into the force field, me calling his name and not being able to save him in time. It comes in repeats, each time slightly different. The second time, I run towards him and fall off the edge of the arena. The third time I dream he's so close and by fingertips I can't reach him. My eyes snap open and I am staring into sleepy blue eyes, covered partially in sandy hair.

It takes me a few seconds to place myself, but the stiff couch cushions aren't under my frame anymore.

"I must have fallen off the couch," I say in a voice too sleepy betray my embarrassment. "I thrash a lot in my sleep."

He nods. "You talk too."

It's not yet dawn but I have to get out of the house. By the time I throw on my old boots and put my bow over my shoulder I'm almost awake.

"Any requests?" I turn to Peeta.

He yawns. "Haven't had one of your squirrels in a while."

I nod. A memory of my father asking my mother this same question and kissing her goodbye flashes through my head. I dismiss it as the after-effects of being jarred so completely from my sleep.


	4. Chapter 4: Closets

With the fever gone and a few days of rest I take the familiar path more surely than I have since I returned. I reacquaint myself with my bow, take my time aiming, practicing my shots. My first squirrel is messy, through the belly. By the third one, it's through the eye. It's such a victory. I feel like a little girl again and want to run to show someone. But I'm alone in this forest and that's okay.

I lose myself in the hunt. I set the snare line, try not to think of Gale. Fatigue, after so many weeks of inactivity, sets in quickly and I rest against trees. In the afternoon I nap against a tree. It's not the safest thing I've ever done so I'll need to pace myself better next time. I get a rabbit before I head back into town. I needed this day.

Sae is ecstatic when I drop the game off at her house. She promises a special dinner. I'm in such a good mood I politely ask if she would mind fixing Haymitch a plate too. She agrees as long as she doesn't have to deliver it. For that I volunteer Peeta.

Three houses down from mine, I smell pie. Burnt pie. I barge in and present my sometimes caretaker with his prize. "Through the eye," I say.

And before I can find out what's distracting him to make him burn the pies, I'm out the door.

That evening, Peeta and Sae bring me dinner. Peeta talks about bread, I listen. It's the same for several days. I venture further out into the woods and bring a little bit more to the dinner conversation. How anyone could talk that much about bread, I have no idea.

Peeta checks on me every morning. He gives me a gentle push out of the door when I need it. If I don't leave the house he insists that I do some household chore to keep myself busy. If I don't leave the bed I have to work on the memory book. He says there will be no more hours of staring into space. If I want to do that I have to go to the woods. But when I get there, there's always so much to watch.

On some of my worst mornings, I still hide behind rows of pants in my closet. It's not the best hiding spot and Peeta will come and sit silently, like Dr. Aurelius used to do, in the doorway until I come out. Sometimes he'll bring a sketchbook. Watching him brings me focus and on several occasions I'm lured out of my spot just to see what he's drawing. He'll work on sketches for the book or scenes from around the district, past and present: the way the town square looked before last summer's bombings, how the slanted Seam houses look now and lots of pictures of his family and their bakery.

He stops sitting in the doorway and inches closer to me as the days pass. One day, he takes my arm and with the charcoal he was sketching with writes: Hunt. Dinner. Free Time.

It didn't work in 13 but when Peeta does it, I find it amusing. Does it help give me purpose? I don't know, but some days it's exactly what I need to snap out of one of my moods.

He will write the dinner menu on my arm or a memory he wants to discuss. I hold my hand out for his pen and his arm one morning to join in the game. He smiles until I write Go Away.

It turns into a game we play a few times a week. My moods are improving and I'll write bread requests on his arm or "do the dishes."

He sits closer to me these days. Eventually his arms find me. He wraps me up. As hard as I try to shove him off, he pulls me in harder. I stop fighting him and probably stay there too long—not know what to do next.

It's not entirely welcome at first. I don't know what to think of the gesture and it makes me want to cry. So he holds me while I sob, even though I don't really know why I'm crying.

Eventually, feeling him next to me calms me. I listen to the rise and fall of his breaths and focus on my breathing. It clears my head, especially on rough mornings when rage and sadness envelop me.

Instead of a hiding spot, the closet becomes sort of a safe haven. I still hide, from everyone but Peeta. The small space helps me clear my head; makes my problems seem smaller and shuts away the rest of the world.

I take a pen and reach for Peeta's arm one morning. While I'm deciding what to write, I trace the pattern of his skin with my fingertips. He leans into me. Our noses are less than an inch apart. My breathing quickens as he looks intently into my eyes. I think I know what's going to happen next, but as quickly as he leaned in he turns his head to the opposite side.

"Sorry," he brushes it off. "I don't know where that came from." He leaves before I have time to register what happened.

He doesn't come for dinner that night and I try to brush it off. It's become such a habit for us that I have to count in my head to calm the anxiety that comes from breaking the routine.

I take the plate of dinner to his house in case he's working late and I can sense something is wrong the moment I click the door open. I can hear the water rushing from the tap, see the suds billowing in the kitchen sink but Peeta isn't in the room.

I shut off the water and listen. There's movement not far away and find him in the formal dining room. He's clutching a chair with one hand, sitting at a table covered in boxes. He's still twitching slightly and the few red drops on the floor probably have something to do with the hand he's cradling. There's a medical kit in front of him so I open it for him. With one hand he takes a yellow pill, followed by a blue gel tablet. His eyes are cloudy again. I take his bleeding hand in mine. The wound isn't deep enough to need stitches so I clean the cut and put some tiny but sturdy bandages on him. I think Prim called them butterfly bandages.

No words have been exchanged at this point. Peeta rests his head on the table. He's obviously in pain and I help him walk over to an armchair he'll be more comfortable in. I lean into to arrange a light blanket across him. His muscles are stiff and his pupils are the smallest I've seen since that mission in the Capitol. I perch on the chair's wide arm to sit with him. "What did they do you?" I murmur. And I'm overwhelmed with guilt, plagued by visions of white lab coats, mad scientists, black boots and blood. My hands fall into the familiar motion of stroking his hair and I slowly calm myself down. Peeta sleeps more peacefully now and as I watch him sleep I nod off myself. I catch myself and quickly slip out the door and into the night. I didn't leave any lights on in my house but it's not hard to make my way home. I hadn't planned on taking care of Peeta—and it confuses me.

When the sun rises I'm restless and return to Peeta's house to check on him. I open the door and he's up drying dishes.

He's grinning from ear to ear. "Good morning Katniss. I had the nicest dream last night."

"Oh."

"I dreamed I was washing dishes when I had one of my flashbacks. I cut my hand on a knife in the sink and you came to take of me. You even stayed with me until I fell asleep."

I'm expressionless, silent, unwilling to let him read me.

"I think it was a dream anyway. I don't remember yesterday evening." He rubs his eye and his bandages are visible.

"I brought you something." I say, betrayed by a hint of enthusiasm in my voice. I had ordered it shortly after Peeta came home, but I'd forgotten about it until this morning. I heat up a teapot. When the water boils, I add in the mix and hand him a mug.

He stares into the mug, which doesn't contain our usual tea. He tilts his head and gives me a strange look.

"It's hot chocolate. One of your favorites," I reply.

He takes a sip of the warm beverage and breathes it in. He closes his eyes and tries to remember. "Oh yes, this I do like."

I let myself relax for a tiny second and smile.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: It made my day to see so many people following this story. Thanks! Please accept my sincere apologies for the delay in updates. The revisions took _much_ longer than I thought they would but I'm hoping that the story is better for it. This chapter still might need some polishing but I've stared at it for too long.

Enjoy.

* * *

Spring has long been in full bloom. The leaves welcome me back with my favorite color, the trees are flowering and the mockingjays whistle songs as they make their nests. The woods are so alive today and I trek further than I usually do. I make it out to the lake for the first time since the television crew came here last fall. The weather is so warm I go swimming and after I do, I feel like a new person.

I even surprise myself by singing a few bars in the shower when I get home. My voice resonates off the bathroom walls making it sound fuller than in the training center. Buttercup swats at my hair while I dry and braid it. Our game is interrupted when I hear movement in the hall.

Peeta has come for dinner and he stands outside the doorway. My first thought is to say something crass for disturbing me, but when I eye the plate of cheesebuns in his hands, my empty and grateful stomach takes over.

"This is great, Peeta. I'm starving," I grab one.

He smirks at me and we walk downstairs to a dinner of Sae's latest creation and a loaf of warm bread.

Peeta watches the news after dinner, as he does every night. I let him put his arm around me, partly because I'm too tired from my day of hunting and swimming to object. I should thank him for the cheese buns, but I let my head on his shoulder say it instead.

My head jerks upward and apparently I momentarily dozed off. Peeta's soft laugh greets me as I try to wake up. "I was going to ask you if you wanted to take a walk," he says. "But..."

I'm sleepy but spring evenings can be so beautiful. "I'm awake," I respond, still blinking my eyes.

He shakes his head. "How about tomorrow?"

I half-laugh in agreement and consider going back to sleep. Usually this would be my cue to go to bed, but I stay where I am and allow him to linger as he sometimes does. I'm used to the company now.

He turns off the television and picks up a goods catalog he left at my house a few days ago. He thumbs through pages of canned food, plant seeds and every day household items. "Need anything?" he asks.

"My mother takes care of that for me," I say with a guilty conscience. She'd probably do the same for him if I asked, but he doesn't really seem to mind checking the boxes for flour, yeast, sugar, eggs, tea, fever medicine and some new shirts. I'm looking at his order. "Am I bothering you?"

"You're fine." He seals the order in an envelope and sets in back on the table. "If you go through town tomorrow morning, could you take this?"

Of course I don't mind dropping it off in the post box in the train station.

He reclines back and puts his hands behind his head. I lay my head back into his lap. I do this without thinking and as soon as I do think, I have to count in my head to calm myself. It's an old habit to curl up with him, but not something I'm sure I should do now. I'm about to get up, but he looks so happy twirling my hair. The next thing I know it's around midnight and I've been sleeping for a few hours. I wouldn't normally mind sleeping on the couch, but my head isn't on a pillow.

As lightly as I can I pick myself up and start toward the stairs.

Peeta's hand brushes the spot where my head had been resting and he opens his eyes. "Good morning," he says while stretching.

"Why did you let me sleep so long?" Where he's gentle, I'm blunt.

He shrugs. "I didn't want to disturb you." I don't really know what to say to that. He begins towards the door. "Besides it's nice to see you smile."

* * *

I don't go to the lake the next day. Instead I climb trees and look for eggs. The tiny new branches get tangled in my hair. It takes almost an hour to brush the knots and clumps out. I'm about to cut the tangles out, but I can't find the scissors that used to be in the bathroom drawer. I phone my mother to get some kind of detangling product. She's on a break from the hospital and feeling chatty. She wants to know how I'm doing. She always asks about Peeta. There's nothing to report there and I don't bring up the orders, because she will probably suggest I order my own things. But I like it that she does it for me. Even though she's on the opposite side of the country, she still tries to take care of me.

Peeta is waiting at the table for me to come to dinner when I finally hang up.

"My mom always asks about you," I say when we sit down.

"That's nice," he replies. "She was always so nice to me in the hospital."

This all makes me miss my mother so I change the subject and tell him about looking forward to strawberries in the summer, which makes me think of Madge. I scrunch my eyes and try to turn off these thoughts.

Peeta brings me the memory book so I can channel my tears into something productive. He must recognize the look. Sometimes we work on it together. We worked on it separately at first. Tonight I sit on the couch with my back propped against his side. I write about Madge while he watches the news. By the time the newscast wraps up with a segment on a massive new lumber mill that has opened in District 7 to help with the rebuilding, I've written through my sadness and welcome the fresh air from the walk he suggested last night.

I lean back to ask if it's time.

"I kind of like this." He tries to wrap me up. "It feels so familiar, like there's something I almost remember."

He wants me to tell him something, but I'm tired of sitting still. In one fluid motion I slip down and out of his grasp. "Are you coming?" Peeta follows me out the door and picks a path around the back of Victor's Village. A few more of the houses are occupied now, but most of the people coming back are trying to rebuild their houses in town or the Seam.

We're winding back to my house. Peeta is being surprisingly quiet, so I concentrate on the warm, sweet-smelling air. The primroses at my house are starting to bloom and the breeze carries their perfume throughout the village.

"Thank you," I nudge him with my thin shoulder.

"You're welcome," he nudges me back.

We stop to take a closer look at the flowers. My thoughts flood to her. On a night like tonight she would be laughing. She would ask me to dance, or maybe attempt a waltz with Buttercup if I declined.

I hear a snap and turn to see Peeta cutting a green stem. I didn't know he carried a pocketknife. I try to get a better look at the knife when he presents the single yellow bloom to me. I hadn't expected it. My first thought is to tell him that I don't want to watch it die, but he looks so sincere and proud of himself. Prim would take it joyfully so I accept it without expressing my objection.

"Katniss," he starts. I look into his blue eyes and wonder what comes after giving me the primrose. He looks at his boots, so I know it's not easy for him to say. "Are we….Can we…"

I have never been so glad to hear a giant clang from Haymitch's house. We both look that way. Peeta shakes his head, rolls his eyes and looks back at me. I'm about to leave to check on my drunken mentor when I hear a string of expletives. He's conscious so I guess he's okay.

I twirl the bloom in my fingers for a distraction. Peeta doesn't continue with his question, but I have a suspicion I know what he was going to ask.

"You're a good friend," I say, making a point of smelling the flower. If he wasn't going to ask about whatever semblance of a relationship we have now then my words might be taken as thanks for the token in my hands.

But saying the words remind me that I should be nicer to him. He's been so kind to me while I've been less than sane, much kinder than I deserve. I put my hand on his arm, and I'm about to tell him that he's the reason I'm alive, but the day with the nightlock capsule floods back to me. The rooftops around me start to spin in a circle. My head goes fuzzy and I tighten my grip on Peeta's arm to stay upright.

In my delirium I got back to the night the squad was camping and hear him sneer: _Lover. Victor. Enemy. Fiancée. Target. Mutt. Neighbor. Hunter. Tribute. Ally. _

I let go, part of me hoping to fall and feel the hard ground beneath me. I stay where I am and feel Peeta's arm behind me, refusing to let me go.

"So, we're friends?" he says. His face is a little too close to mine for comfort. But he's not that angry boy he was so I try to bring myself back to Victor's Village. I focus on his question and begin to regain my balance.

I nod slowly. The rooftops stop swirling, but I'm uncertain. I close my eyes and try to compose myself.

"Come here," I feel him say into my ear. I'm not sure if I stepped into him or if he pulled me closer, but his hug feels safe and warm and right.

"I'm dizzy," I quietly admit to his chest.

"I had no idea I had that effect on you," he quips.

It really is a terrible comment given the state of my head so who knows where that laugh came from, but once it bursts out of my mouth my head clears and I come back to reality. I give Peeta a playful shove and he puts his arm around my shoulders and guides me gently forward.

* * *

The strolls become a fair weather habit. Peeta says it's nice to get out of his kitchen bakery and wind down after so much time indoors. He tells me about his day or some memory from the past he's trying to piece together.

We don't have a set route and we take turns picking our paths through the different corners of the district. I show him around the parts of the Seam I can still bear to walk through. And when we pass too close to my old house my hand fits effortlessly into his. I watch as people trickle back to the district and houses in the Seam begin to be repaired. My boot crunches the dirt and what little gravel remains and I marvel at the freedom of walking around the district without the electrified fence or the constant threat of peacekeepers.

On Tuesdays Peeta plays weekly game of chess with Haymitch. Their activity bores me to sleep, but I stay to referee in case knives are thrown and boards knocked over. The swearing is to be expected.

The beauty of this arrangement is that since Peeta beat Haymitch a few weeks ago, Haymitch has been consistently less drunk on Tuesdays than any other day of the week. At this game, Haymitch traps Peeta's king and gets up to leave.

"Almost forgot," Haymitch cocks his head. "You two are the talk of the town. Heard you were walking through town center, holding hands and smooching."

I almost fall off the couch.

"That's not really how I remember it," Peeta huffs.

"Just be careful," Haymitch warns. "Unless you really want to film a special for Plutarch."

This means no more walks for me and I slink out before Peeta has a chance to say anything further.

He still tries the next day. "Come with me?" he points out the door.

I don't budge. He shakes his head. "I've got something coming in on the train and I could use a hand."

"I have some things to do around the house." Peeta muffles a laugh in his mouth. He does the dishes. I only do the laundry when there's absolutely nothing left to wear. I clean up behind myself so the house stays clean enough to suit me. "Yard work?" I attempt.

"I can take a hint," he says disdainfully.

I make a show of tending to the primrose bushes. I water them and Buttercup helps by darting between my legs and trying to trip me. "You are a rotten cat," I yell. He fluffs himself up at the compliment.

Peeta comes back from the station carrying one of those giant flour sacks that probably weighs more than me. I pretend to be immersed in my watering. He drops off the sack and walks to Haymitch's, not even looking at me as he passes. I'm wondering what they're up to, so I take a peek in the window. Haymitch offers Peeta a drink.

"Have you seen Buttercup?" I stumble in as loudly as I possible can. "I thought I saw him run in here."

"Peeta, will you help me look for him?"

Peeta stands up and comes back to my house with me. He laughs when he sees Buttercup sitting on the front steps. "Katniss, you are a lousy liar. But it was sweet that you didn't want me drinking with Haymitch."

I take offense to the sweet comment and cross my arms across my chest. "I'm not taking care of you when you're drunk."

"I bought Haymitch that bottle at the station."

"I don't need two drunks," I roll my eyes at him.

"Come on," he takes my arm and leads me inside. We sit at the table. "Why won't you come with me tonight? You seem to enjoy yourself walking through the district."

"You heard what Haymitch said. I don't want the cameras around. Remember how annoying they were before?" It only occurs to me after the words spill out that he might not remember.

"So you don't want to be bothered to have to pretend to love me?" His voice is cold.

I ignore the last part of his question. "I don't want the cameras period. Pretending. Not pretending."

"I thought you liked the attention."

"It was also so forced. Film this. Film that. Everything was on camera, too." I'm getting upset so I busy myself and make tea. "I just want to be left alone. They can't have anything else."

The teapot whistles and I steep the tea. "What about you?"

"I've had worse things happen to me than cameras."

Now, I get to feel guilty all over again. I hand him his tea.

"And it wasn't all bad," he takes my hand. "Those videos gave me some of my memories back." But not all of them, I think. "But if you don't want them around anymore, I can respect that." He changes his tone from serious to playful. "Then I wouldn't have to worry you were ki—." I put my hand over his mouth in case he says what I think he might. "for the cameras," he gets out when I uncup my hand.

"Don't make me regret not slipping something into your tea," I say.

* * *

I'm still hesitant to go out with Peeta so he goes by himself, often handing out extra bread he's made. He comes back to my house and we resume our tradition of lingering too long at each other's houses, napping and going home in the middle of the night. One night he's out a little later than usual and Sae stops by to tell me I need to go and fetch him. She says he's at the train station and she couldn't get him to budge. I couldn't carry him home, but I know why she asked me.

He's sitting on a bench with a sketchpad, though there's not enough light to draw. I try sitting down next to him. He's drawn a very empty train station. The pencil is still in his hand, but his gaze is distant.

"Let's go home," I urge softly. He blinks at the word "home," but otherwise doesn't respond. I pace the platform and finally lie on the bench across from him and look at the stars while I wait for him to come back from wherever he's gone.

The tracks are silent and I listen to the hum of the distant cicadas. I break the quiet. "Peeta, do you need me to get your pills?" I'm starting to worry. He doesn't look like he's having one of his episodes, but I'm not sure. "I don't want you to be out here all night."

He blinks, shakes his head and looks up at me. "I was thinking about something."

I fight the urge to laugh. "Well, welcome back."

He gets up and walks over to me. I'm taking up the entire bench, so he picks up my legs and puts them across his lap so he can sit down.

We should head home but I'm enjoying the night air, more so now that I know Peeta is okay. He doesn't motion to leave, so I decide to make the most our time at the deserted station.

"See those three stars," I say pointing upward. "That's Orion's belt. He was a hunter." The lore came from long before the Dark Days. My father told me about him when I was young. I point out the different stars that make up the constellation and he cranes his neck.

Before long I have Peeta smiling. We're laughing together by the time the very last train of the day speeds through the station. I let the gust of wind flow over me and listen as the train rumbles towards District 13 on the newly connected track.

Peeta's hand is on my leg. "Katniss, tell me about the nights on the train." His voice is soft and his mood reflective.

"Hmm…" I sigh, still staring at the stars. The late nights on the couch, the entwined limbs—of course he wonders.

"I can't exactly ask Haymitch."

"Nightmares," I begin. "I know you have nightmares every night."

I prop myself up and his eyes search mine.

"They started after our Hunger Games."

I have his attention and I tell the story slowly, deliberately. Our nights together started on the trains of the victory tour. The stress of the president's threat made the nightmares worse. I'd wake screaming every night. "You spent sleepless nights roaming the halls. You would knock on my door to check on me. You'd come in and stay with me until I fell asleep. Then you'd just stay the whole night."

"It was quite the scandal," I tease, getting up to walk home. He follows. "I can remember the lecture Effie gave me now. But maybe she was just mad that her sleeping pills didn't work."

"Did it help? Me staying me with you?"

"We both slept better."

"I can't remember a night without nightmares," he mutters. "But you, you were smiling the other night. I can't figure that out."

"You used to smile in your sleep," I tell him. "On the trains."

"Oh." He thinks for a minute. "Our nights—was this only on tour? Was it every night?"

"You think my mother would have allowed it after the tour?" I try to lighten the mood.

Of course, there were the nights in the Training Tower, too. I don't bring them up because the memories of a restless night and learning what Peeta's nightmares used to be about stings too deeply. So much has changed.

"Was there anything else?" Peeta asks. "Because the Capitol made me think there was more."

We've reached the village now and stand on my doorstep. Every answer I think of isn't good enough for him. If I tell him it was just sleep, that's cold. If I tell him it wasn't romantic, he'll ask about love. If I tell him it was survival, that doesn't seem entirely honest. If I hint at how much I appreciated and missed him keeping me safe so many nights, well he can't be that same person anymore.

After an eternity of silence I lean in and bury my head in his chest. His arms wrap around me and the right answer comes to me. I take him by the hand. "I have an idea."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: So, no I haven't fallen off the face of the Earth, this chapter just took entirely too long._

_And FYI: I was in a weird mood Haymitch is watching a zombie movie. A little out of left field, but eh_.

* * *

_I don't want to get up. _It's the same thought I have every morning, before I roll over, throw the blankets over my head and begin to dread the new day. Today though, it's not dread that anchors me to the bed but an intoxicating warmth.

"There's that smile," Peeta whispers as he lightly moves a wisp of hair off of my forehead_. _I listen to his steady breathing and let him think I'm still sleeping.

Peeta is frequently at my house in the morning, often urging me to get up and out the door, but I forgot what mornings with him are like: warm and serenely quiet, the opposite of the morning tantrums I'm trying to move past. I peek out of one eyelid and see sunlight streaming down onto our pillows. A shaft of light hits the hand of the outstretched arm I'm laying on.

I hear him shift his weight and the arm that was draped across my midsection slides away. I think he's getting up, but feel his head move closer to mine. "Thank you," he whispers so softly I can barely discern it. I don't budge as he kisses the top of my head. If I'm asleep it doesn't count.

I count to 60 and then roll sleepily over. I blink my eyes open and catch a glimpse of messy blonde hair and expectant eyes looking in my direction. I look at the eggshell colored wall beyond him. He puts his hand on my cheek. My hand covers the back of his. His hand is soft and I can faintly make outthe raised burn scars. My heart beats loudly now, pounding in my throat and ears, breaking the morning quiet. I quickly pull back and sit at the headboard with my knees to my chest.

Peeta stays half-sleeping in the bed and keeps his hand cupped on the sheet where it fell.

I swallow and let the moment pass. "How did you sleep?" I extend my leg and poke his chest with my foot.

Peeta's chest rises and falls in a deep sigh. He hugs a pillow in my absence and closes his eyes again. "Good," he finally says.

"Did it help?" My foot pokes him again. He grabs it by the arch. My foot is one of the few places on my body that looks more human than patchwork quilt. It's small and my prep team would complain about the nails. He uses the side of a fingertip to trace its curves with the slow and deliberate motion he used when he drew in my family's plant book.

"Red," Peeta says. "I remember your nails being red."

My nails have been all sorts of colors in the last two years, red, black, baby pink, some fiery design and I think they even talked me into electric blue once. I nod.

"And you have this bad habit of going to bed with socks on and losing them in the blankets."

I do seem to always wake up barefoot. "So, you remember?"

"Flashes here and there."

"That's good, right?"

"You have no idea." His look says he wants me to come back to him. I'm tempted.

"I should get going," I say. "Before it gets too hot." I leave Peeta staring at the ceiling. "See you later."

"Katniss," he calls. "Can we…" and I'm in the bathroom changing and can't hear the rest of what he says.

I walk to the woods and try to make a list of the things I need to do today: check the snare line, gather greens, get a rabbit for Sae, check that the wild dogs aren't back.

"Hey there, Katniss." Now, I'm going to have to restart my list because I've forgotten it. It's Thom. I've passed by the rubble he's clearing away from where the barber used to be.

"Hi," I mutter trying to remember to find some dill for Peeta.

"Almost didn't recognize you with that bounce in your step. You must be feeling better."

Thom's cheerful comment takes me by surprise. I do not bounce. My silent walk is a point of pride. A bounce will do nothing but let the animals in the forest know I'm there. "Some days," I say not to be rude.

"Well, it's nice to see that you got up on the right side of the bed today."

It's an old expression. My mother used to joke about me perpetually getting up on the wrong side of the bed. Today, though I kick at the ground with the toe of my boot and put my chin down to hide the blush I know is coming. "I guess," I say vaguely.

The difference is today I'm rested. There were no tears, fits or hiding spots this morning. If there were nightmares, I don't remember.

He winks at me and I plant my feet deliberately as I walk off. A few steps in, I notice there is something off. Today my feet aren't dragging, as they are so many mornings when I hunt just to pass the time.

My mind wanders back to the boy trying to regain complicated memories, and how last fall I wouldn't have thought it possible for me to let him in again.

* * *

"Katniss, it's okay, Katniss wake up."

I open my eyes. Peeta is sitting with me in my bed. He's holding one of my arms. It's dark. My throat hurts. I'm struggling for breath. I clutch my throat and look at him.

"Don't come near me," I push to the edge of the bed because I remembered what happened—the same thing that happened when he first came back. He attacked me. I feel so betrayed because I thought we were past this. I thought he was better.

"Get out of my house," I demand angrily. I'm heaving now, on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Breathe, Katniss, breathe," he says in a voice that's too soothing for my present rage. "You had a nightmare. You're okay now. You're safe. You're in your bed. Sssshh."

I'm trembling and now I don't know what happened. I slump in the doorway. It seemed so real. Could it have been a dream? I should run away, leave, get out of the house and away from Peeta, but I'm glued to the spot.

"What happened in your nightmare? Did something hurt you?" His voice is calm, if scared. He's not in his angry state where he could have done this, but maybe he snapped out of it.

"How do I tell what's real?" I almost cry. He's the expert in this area.

"Tell me what happened."

"You strangled me."

His face drops. "That was a long time ago. Not tonight."

I shake my head.

"Does your neck hurt?"

I pause at his question. "My throat hurts."

"From screaming. If I hurt you, you'll start to bruise soon."

That makes sense and I want to believe him. He gets up. "I'm going home now," he gets throws his boots over his shoulders by their laces, not even taking the time to put them on. "I'm sorry I upset you."

After that, there's no way I'm going back to sleep. I'm terrified. If it was real, I lost my companion. If it was a dream, I've hurt him.

The clock says it's three in the morning. Perfect.

* * *

"Haymitch?" I call. I'm still in my pajamas and I don't want to be alone.

"Screamed yourself out?" he calls from his couch. I use the faint glow of the television to find my way through the darkness toward him, slowly navigating the piles of bottles and filth. I step in something slimy. I don't look to see what it is because I don't want to know. This is what I get for not wearing shoes.

"Peeta…" and that's all I get out before I break down into sobs. I cry until my eyelids hurt never managing to get out any words about why I'm hysterical.

Haymitch says nothing and keeps his eyes on a broadcast I haven't seen before. It's not news and it's not the games, but there's lots of blood and these staggering grayish-blue-tinted people that have some sort of weird skull modification. I will never understand Capitol fashion.

When my eyes are too swollen for another tear to escape, the mentor acknowledges me. "I'll talk to him," he grumbles. "Now go home. I'm watching this."

He laughs as one of the Capitol-people corners a pretty blonde girl and makes a bloody mess of her head. Ugh.

That last scene, coupled with my sticky foot makes me slightly nauseated. I'm still balled up in a chair I dumped a bunch of crumpled up papers out of. I don't want to be here anymore. I'm trying to make my legs move when I hear the door. I freeze.

"Haymitch?"

He motions for me to be quiet.

"I was expecting you. You just missed her." He lies with such ease. I make myself as small as possible and hope the dark hides me. It will take a few minutes for his eyes to adjust. I've taken the chair farthest from the door and if he doesn't look this way, I won't have to face him.

"She thinks I strangled her." His voice is pained. He's looking at Haymitch, not towards my chair.

"You did." Haymitch's voice is matter-of-fact.

"Tonight."

"Did you?"

"No!" He's adamant, but I know him to be a clever liar.

"You didn't have one of your crazy episodes and sleepwalk over to her house? No chance?"

"No. I was awake—no episodes. I take those awful pills so it won't happen again**…**The side effects…you don't want to know." He recovers from his sidetrack. "I woke up because she had all the blanket. I tugged some back over. It touched her neck and she started screaming. Took me forever to wake her up."

"So you were sharing at blanket in the middle of the night?"

Nightmares are bad, but this question knocks the wind out of me. Peeta doesn't answer.

"Surprised it took this long," Haymitch shakes his head. "Go kiss and make up."

Peeta snorts.

"Oh and take her home will ya? She's in that chair and I'm trying to watch TV."

Where are those nighttime glasses when I need them? I would have loved to see Peeta's reaction.

Peeta walks over, kicking what might be soiled laundry out of the way. "Katniss?" he looks down at me.

"Hey."

He shakes his head at me, but appears to be smirking. "Hi," he says in a shy schoolboy voice.

This is the point where I should apologize. I'm still shaken and not ready to. "You didn't do it?"

I want so badly for him to be better. We were happy hours ago, sitting under a white blanket that's almost too thick for the warm weather. Peeta was so enthusiastic to remember the smallest details: the cookie crumbs in the bed when he insisted I eat, the way the train's safety lights protected us from total darkness**, **even the time the train attendant brought Effie's midnight snack to my room by mistake and then promptly knocked an entire tureen of soup and crackers into the carpet at the sight of seeing us in bed together made him chuckle. He was relieved to hear that no, we didn't have nighttime screaming matches those nights on the train. Not at each other at least. That was all the Capitol's creation.

We played "Real or Not Real" until I could barely keep my eyes open. Peeta's getting so good at the game. He's become skeptical about the memories that weren't real. Though, some of his memories were so ridiculous they made me laugh. Suddenly, Peeta had a lot more ridiculously funny memories he had to ask me about. Eventually I just threw the blanket over his head and told him to go to sleep.

He puts his forehead on mine and I try to go back from Haymitch's foul-smelling house to how good it felt to laugh a few hours ago. "No." His voice is quiet and deep, meant for only me and not our mediator. He puts stray hair that's hanging over my eye behind my ear and lets his hand linger.

I match his softness. "I want to believe you."

I let him come with me to look in the mirror at my house after he promises to go to his house for the rest of the night.

In the mirror, there's a girl with red puffy eyes, blotchy cheeks and hair sticking out from almost every section of her braid. There are no neck bruises.

I rake my fingers through my hair, pulling out what was once supposed to be a braid. My hair falls down past my shoulders. "Would they show up yet? Or does it take a few hours?"

"Let's see," Peeta pulls up the pant leg on his good leg. "It seems that I had forgotten that _someone_," he gives me a look, "kicks in their sleep." There's a red mark. "You are a dangerous girl, Katniss Everdeen."

I lean down and look at his leg; angry red ribbons crisscross it, outlining pink and white sections. My bruise is on a large section of normal looking skin. My fingers go to it and I'm overwhelmed by how I've hurt this boy. For a second all I want is to wash it all off like the camouflage from the first games.

A glance up and Peeta's good-natured smile reminds me of my father's fix-all for childhood injuries. "I'm sorry," I say more to his leg than him and it's the first time my lips have met any part of him since last year.

My head goes cloudy as I slowly pull away and stand back up. It fixed nothing. He's still broken, scarred and bruised. And I'm more confused than ever.

Peeta reaches for me, hugs me even. He moves my hair to one shoulder. I freeze. "I'm sorry," he whispers in my ear. I don't know what he's apologizing for until I feel a sensation I'd almost forgotten, warm and impossibly light. I didn't know I was holding my breath, but at his touch I let it out.

I close my eyes and tell myself this is not happening. It's just a dream. I'll open my eyes and be in my bed. But the kiss smolders on my neck. I open my eyes and Peeta's head rests on my shoulder.

In the mirror, we look like lovers again. We aren't lovers, haven't been in such a long time—if we even ever were. I tilt my head and look in his eyes. "No," I choke out. This isn't what I wanted. It's too much. I can't process it.

"Katniss," he pleads with big eyes that wrench my heart.

"No," I say louder, and pull away.

"I'm sorry." His tone is sincere but I can't look at him without seeing that kiss, all the other kisses.

"No to all of this," I yell.

If I had any tears left, I might cry. There aren't any, so I erupt. Shampoo bottles, decorative vases, the cat's water bowl—everything I find I throw. At first I just hurl a bottle to the floor so hard it shatters. Peeta makes the mistake of grabbing my arm, saying meaningless words meant to calm. I shove him and words that I don't mean spew out of my mouth.

For the second time tonight Peeta leaves to the sounds of my screams and I'm left in a dazed heap among the shards of glass and sticky shampoo puddles.

* * *

_A/N: Forgive me if this website ate some of my words. I proofed it and there were some words missing and spacing issues that weren't in the document I uploaded...__ I hope I caught most of them._


	7. Chapter 7: Bugged

**Chapter 7. Bugged**

Wow. I finally updated.

Please forgive me. I've been both busy and brain dead lately. (The next chapter should be posted in the next few days)

Oh, and if you haven't already seen it, I wrote a super-flirty one-shot, Kissing Lessons With Finnick.

* * *

"Katniss, I thought we were past throwing things," Dr. Aurelius says during my weekly phone session.

"Huh?"

"You've been so good." I hear the sounds of ruffling papers. "It's been three weeks. I thought we were making progress. Why now?"

"I'm not throwing things," I lie. He doesn't need to know about the disaster a few nights ago. If he thinks I'm better, I'll have fewer pills to take.

I'm not really sure how many pills I'm taking these days. Peeta puts the pills in a case for me and I take what's in the compartment for that day. If I'm not feeling up to it, he brings them to me. I could be taking measles medication for all I know. There are several pills in varying sizes. The square yellow ones make me groggy, though they're not sleeping pills—that's what the round purple ones are supposed to be for. There are long, green ones for when I'm in one of my foulest moods; they make my hands shake. The aptly colored pink ones are to ward off infection in my new skin. And I don't remember the rest. All I know is the white and blue ones are for headaches and he can keep those coming.

"What set you off?" he persists. We'd been talking about how mornings were getting easier for me. I never once mentioned anything about my lack of clear thinking and good judgment the other night. I didn't even hint at the mess in the bathroom and the reflection that sent me over the edge.

"Not every day is a good day," I admit vaguely. "I have some bad days."

A pause on the line lets me know he's accepted my answer. "And what about nightmares? Have they been better or worse lately?"

He always asks me about nightmares, but I get the feeling he knows about the other night. And since I didn't tell him, I suspect his patient three doors down told on me**.**

"I don't know. I try not to think about them," I lie again. I had one good night of sleep, but every night since has been unbearable. The strangling dream was just the beginning. It triggered something in my head and the next night all I dreamed of was hijacked Peeta: stomping on my skull, throwing me into a pod in the Capitol streets, carving my face with his pocketknife for all the empty kisses and lies.

I don't think the nightmares could get any worse, but they're a given. They'll come no matter how much he drugs me. And the drugs have this way of making me feel like I'm sleepwalking underwater with a head cold until noon the day after I take them. This feeling does not do anything to help my hunting.

"Katniss," he chastises when I'm silent too long.

"Fine," I stomp my foot and switch tactics. "I have nightmares. Every night. One night I dreamed I was taking a test in coal production class, and for every wrong answer I got, the Capitol would blow up one grade in my school starting with the kindergarten. Five-year-old's died because I couldn't remember the difference between lignite and bituminous coal. I dreamed that those reptilian mutts from the underground were chasing me through the woods and I got caught in one of my own snares. I was hanging by one leg from a tree as they took turns biting chunks out of my arms and sides. Then the poison fog rolled in and seeped into my bloody wounds. The burning—it was awful and I couldn't even run. And one night I dreamed I was getting married to President Snow. Everything was roses. Even my dress was made of them. It smelled like blood. And he even poisoned our wedding toast."

I leave out all the dreams about Peeta, but otherwise hope to shock him into ending our session early. I hear his pen scribbling as he writes notes. "What does the Snow dream mean?" I chirp enthusiastically, trying to steer him away anything that will make him up my medication.

"I think it means you're still getting over your trauma," he says slowly. "Do you worry about these kinds of things during the day?"

"I can't," I say without expression. The more I worry about those kinds of things the darker the places my head goes to. I distract myself with hunting, never losing an arrow. I've recently started to build a new bow. It's probably my worst attempt ever, but starting over gives me something to do.

"I think we need to adjust your medication. Let's try doubling your dose of Prozax and I'm going to send you some new sleeping medicine."

"I told you I won't take your sleeping medicine. It makes me worse."

This back and forth goes on for several more minutes. I never said I was the ideal patient. The way I see it, if I'm telling him I won't take his pills means that I'm talking to him. That's a step up from the silent treatment.

He finally relents. "I have access to your audio files and if your condition doesn't improve, I'm going to adjust your medication. Maybe I'll send a nurse to make sure you take them."

Yeah, yeah. "So if I'm fine, no more pills?"

"That seems unlikely, but yes. Time's up. Until next time, Miss Everdeen."

And I'm done with that chore for another week. Usually I'd be venting to Peeta about how much of a waste of my time it is.

But I'm not talking to Peeta, not since that night.

I couldn't face Peeta the next day. I didn't know if it was his fault or if I should apologize. So I locked my house—something rarely done in Victor's Village—and left early for the woods. I came home late and instructed Sae that our dinners would be separate.

That first evening Peeta left a note on my door. One look at it and all the handwriting blurred together. Sitting there on my steps, with the paper in my hands, I decided I'd be better off not knowing what the letter contained. I wasn't ready for an apology and didn't want to read the awful things he could say. I grabbed at it to throw it away, but used too much force and it ripped. There was no saving it. Again and again I tore it into pieces and let the wind scatter the remains among the roots of the primrose bushes.

I've been debating asking him if we could just pretend it never happened but I haven't made it over to his house yet. Now, I want to know why he told on me.

My chest starts to tighten as soon as I take that first step towards his house. Realistically, I can't avoid him forever. We're neighbors, I might as well get this over with. I'm just going to ask a question. No apologies. No broken glass_._

_This is all his fault,_ I remind myself. He started it. Or did I? _His fault,_ I close the door to his house harder than I mean to.

He's in his kitchen refilling a blue canister of flour. "Hi," I announce myself.

The awkwardness between us is worse than I thought it would be and I don't like it. I clench my fists and remind myself not to scream, that I should act normally. But I don't know what normal is for us these days.

He's silent as I cross to the counter where he's standing. He doesn't let on if he's angry, worried or annoyed. He's obviously not happy, not welcoming me back with open arms. I wasn't expecting to run giddily back to him, but this reception is already colder than I anticipated. He doesn't say anything so it's my turn to start. I skip the small talk. I don't need to know what kind of bread he made today or what he thought of the weather. "Why did you tell Dr. Aurelius about my nightmare?" My arms are crossed in front of my chest and I glare at him.

He looks blankly at me, wiping flour from his hands on his apron. "If you came to scream at me, I don't feel up to it."

I blink, trying to process what just happened. Peeta continues to clean up his kitchen like I'm not there and I take a stool at the counter. I'm not sure how long I stayed slumped there, but the sound of Peeta cursing snaps me out of it.

"Damn, lousy stupid oven," he's muttering. "Burned the damn bread. It's not any hotter than last time, I didn't leave it in longer—but look at this. Ruined." He rambles on with a few choice words that I think I directed at him the other night.

I'm not sure I've ever had the opportunity to see Peeta stomp around his kitchen like a mad man, so I watch for a few seconds before intervening. "I'm sure it's fine," I say pretending not to notice the smell of charred bread in the air.

He gives me a painfully forced smile, then opens the lid of the trashcan.

"I think Haymitch likes his bread well done," I try to stop him. "It's supposed to go well with white liquor."

Peeta throws a glare my way but motions for me to take the loaves and get out of his house. I hurry out the door and don't look back.

This is the time of evening Haymitch usually wakes up from a long day of sleeping. I open his door to the predictably dark room and put the bread down in the spot where Peeta usually leaves it. "I brought you some bread," I yell so I don't get a knife thrown at me, not that he could hit anything with that knife.

"Mockingjay," he slurs. "Where's your boy?"

_Muttering in his kitchen. _"He's not my boy," I grimace. Haymitch exasperates me.

"Another lovers' quarrel? It must have been a good one because he didn't have to try to let me win at chess like he normally does. Pathetic."

I ignore his comment and turn a lamp on to look around the room. Haymitch uses the small amount of light to spot a pile of bottles he's amassed on the opposite side of the room. He throws the latest empty bottle towards it. My gaze follows the clear container past the hole in the wall where the phone has once again been ripped out. I hear the hard thud of glass hitting glass.

_Why did you rip your telephone out again_' I almost ask. But since he doesn't have a phone I pose a different question. "Do you need anything? Other than liquor?"

He scratches his belly. He needs a haircut and a hairbrush badly. "I'm good. But you could be nicer to that boy."

I almost protest. I am nice to Peeta…usually, I think. There are some days I don't recall, so I can't be certain. And I probably could have been more polite at his house earlier.

* * *

_Nice,_ I tell myself as I walk back to try talking to him again. I close the door behind me softly, though I still expect a speech from Peeta. He is sitting at the table recovering from his bout with the bread. I sit quietly across from him. He really does look exhausted.

"Katniss, you're back." He doesn't sound thrilled.

I shrug.

"What can I help you with?" His tone is tired and slightly icy. The way he says it and the earlier comment tells me he has no patience for me tonight.

I look at the grain in the table instead of him. Haymitch once told me to put myself in Peeta's position. I look at Peeta and when I really think about it I know that the nightmares and flashbacks aren't the only things exhausting him.

I was in his position years ago, taking care of my mother. Peeta sometimes forces me to eat the way Prim and I did with mother. Prim was so young, but still handled it better than me. And after all he's done for me I just scream at him and chase him off. "Okay, so no vases tonight," I start.

"That would be nice, Katniss. How was your day?" Peeta reverts to our dinnertime routine. It's strangely calming.

"That's why I'm here," I say, once again looking at the swirls in the oak. "I just had my hour."

"That's good. Do you need to talk about something?" His voice reminds me of the condescendingly calm voices of the Capitol doctors I refused to talk to.

I trace the swirls in the table with my index finger. There were no breakthroughs in my session. I knew before I called why I threw those things. It was just a bad day. I was angry and I'd just had too much. I didn't know what to do with all of that anger. There's a lot of it still there.

Originally I had planned to yell at Peeta, but sitting at the table with him I decide against it. "He knew about the other night." It comes out quietly and I don't look at him. "I didn't tell him." I was going to stop there but the words keep coming. "I'm sure you discuss me in your sessions, and I guess I'll have to be okay with it, but I just don't want him to drug me anymore. I'm tired of my hands shaking and the cloudy head. I'm tired of everything the pills do to me."

Peeta stares at me, shakes his head. "Katniss, I didn't say anything."

This makes no sense. "Then, why did he ask me about it?"

"I don't think I did," Peeta says again. His eyes go upward as he remembers their sessions. "I asked him about what he did to override the violent part of the hijacking. I wanted to make sure there was no chance I'd ever. . . you know," he gulps.

Peeta has an uncanny gift for making me feel horrible. While I was worried about being tattled on, he was being kind and trying to keep me safe. "Then how did he know?"

"Your mother? Haymitch?" Peeta guesses.

"Haymitch doesn't have a phone anymore," I tell him. If he had kept the phone, he could at least order liquor. "And I didn't tell my mother." My mother does not need to know that Peeta slept over and that I destroyed the vases she picked out.

I run over the conversation with the doctor in my head. Peeta has spent much more time with him than I have and knows more about his office in general. "Peeta, how does the doctor have access to my audio files and what does that mean?"

Peeta clenches his hands on the table. I know before he opens his mouth that I won't like what he's about to say. "An audio file is a sound file—like the sound they record for TV—but it's just the sound. They played some of our conversations to me when I was…in the Capitol."

"In the Capitol," has become his euphemism for when he was tortured—not that being in the Capitol sounds that much more pleasant. I generally associate the Capitol with all things evil, painful and bad.

"They'd play me these conversations I don't really think we ever had, or that I think had been modified from what we actually talked about. But it was your voice. It was like the jabberjays in the beach arena. I don't know," he trails off, his hands shaking. My hands cover his before I realize what I'm doing.

"You don't have to talk about it," I remind him, mostly because I'm uncomfortable.

"Katniss, why did they have these recordings of us talking outside of the games? Why did we only talk about important things outside of the house?" Now his voice is tempered with anger. His foot is tapping an erratic rhythm on the hardwood.

"Because everyone says the houses are bugged."

"Exactly." Peeta scowls. "I didn't think they'd still be listening," Peeta says throwing his hands up.

Am I ever going to escape the Games?

I can't breathe. I try, but I can't get enough air. I'm suffocating, starting to feel woozy. I stumble towards the door and fling it open to fill my lungs with untainted air. I crumble on the steps, still gasping. Then I remember Peeta, his shaking hands and my advice from Haymitch.

Inside Peeta is seething, yanking scraps of paper from a small notebook and putting them down near the phone. "Do you need some air?" I ask in the calmest voice I can muster, putting my hand on his wrist. This is the most agitated I've seen him since we came back and I'm worried he's a few minutes away from a flashback.

"I'm going to make some phone calls," he says, brushing my hand off and moving towards the phone. "See you later," he dismisses me.

I pick at my nails and am slow to leave. I was trying to help—did he not recognize that? He's busy dialing numbers. I walk over to him. I've been trying to control my rage, but I have no patience and every second I wait the rage boils up inside me a little further.

"No!" I yell at him. "You're coming with me, right now."

He slams the phone and stares me down. "You scream at me, don't talk to me for three days and now you want me to drop everything I'm doing to come with you even though I'm not allowed to be seen with you in public?"

With a few exceptions, I've seen Peeta every day since he's been home. Even on the days when he looks pale, sick or sleep deprived he always tries to be pleasant. He's not the grumpy sort, like Haymitch or me. This is the first glimpse I've seen of the icy boy from before the tour or the angry boy from District 13. Until today I thought he'd shed that persona in the Capitol. But today he's angry, cold and grumpy, and there's enough of that in Victor's Village.

For that reason, I take exactly one second to feel guilty about his gibe, then I'm over it. "Outside, now," I order him. Peeta is a lot bigger than me. I couldn't exactly take him by force, but I'm not backing down.

Peeta starts muttering under his breath, puts his hand on his temple. I put my hands on his back and start pushing him to the door. Peeta lets me push him for a few steps before digging his heel in. "What are you doing?"

"I am trying to being nice." It comes out rude and loud.

"You have a funny way of showing it," he retorts but comes with me to the door.

We get a couple steps from his house. I take a breath and rephrase. "You're upset. I thought this might calm you down." I concentrate on the lines where the leather in his boots is wearing in. "I don't want you to . . . get sick."

He takes a moment to consider. "The pills are in my pocket if I do," he taps his right pocket. He changed his tone. This is the voice of thoughtful Peeta.

After that, it takes a second for me to remember we're mad at each other and that it's not just any other night**. **We're quiet. Peeta doesn't regale me with tales of dough rising or frosting flowers that look more like pink clouds. I don't tell him about the spotted fawn I saw this morning, nor do I tell him that my dinners have been painfully silent recently.

Wordlessly, I lead Peeta past the edge of the meadow—the farthest we've walked towards the woods since we've been home. This is the first time I've taken him the smallest bit into my place. It's my peace offering. I don't tell him this, of course. I don't need to. Peeta has a way of knowing.


	8. Chapter 8: Lines

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**Chapter 8. Lines**

Thanks for the amazing amount of reviews and story alerts. I love it.

(And to Non-Reviewer, you made my day. I wish I could have replied.)

This chapter looks nothing like my first, or even fourth draft….. I'm not sure I'm happy with it, but it's time to move on.

The story does pick up speed shortly, though, so stay with me for the coming chapters. I'm looking forward to them.

* * *

Everything has changed in the last two years—everything but the woods.

I take a few moments and breathe in the smell of the pine trees and listen to the hum of the cicadas. This is my place, the one thing virtually unchanged from my life two years ago. The bombs didn't drop this far out; by some miracle the woods didn't burn. The trees are still the same. The wild dogs are probably still the same.

Just past the tree line a granite outcrop begins. Several large rocks dot the area. I climb on one that's as wide as a desk but shaped like steps. Usually I'm so focused on hunting I don't worry about these rocks, much less play on them. This rock, I don't think I've climbed on in years. I survey the area from my perch at its highest point.

Peeta leans against a tree and looks on with an amused expression. "This is it, huh? This is where you spend your days?"

"Not this spot," I motion, because I'm not usually on a waist-high piece of granite. "But in general."

I don't know what comes next in our conversation. There's a lot to say, but no obvious place to start.

Peeta crouches and starts scribbling in the earth with a stick. "You didn't bring your bow."

I didn't really plan this. I just had to get out of the house. Peeta would have planned something. I might have planned something more than sitting on a cold uneven rock had I known we were going to be out here tonight. If it wasn't so late he could help me gather, but there's not much daylight left. I also would have brought more than the small hunting knife that stays clipped on my belt. Between that and the red pocketknife that Peeta always keeps with him I think we'll be safe enough from the overgrown chipmunks that like to scurry between the rocks in this part of the woods.

"Have we been out here before?" Peeta asks.

It takes me a while to place it. Peeta seems like such a larger part of my life than just the last two years and the bread when I was 11. I never took him here after the first games because we weren't speaking. After the whipping, the fence was electrified. "No." My answer surprises me. I start climbing down from the rock.

"We should do something," Peeta looks up from his stick drawing. "What did we used to do?" He says it like we've been best friends since we were seven. I can't be certain, but I think Peeta remembers enough of his childhood to know that I wasn't a part of it.

I run over the list in my head. "Feud," I laugh the word at him. "I think we're getting pretty good at it."

"There's definitely room for improvement," he deadpans. His cheeks rise and he comes and sits next to me with his back against the lower edge of the rock.

"So next time, more cursing, less glass?" I make light of that awful night. We'll have to talk about it at some point. Out here in the woods, there's no glass to break and no neighbors overhear. "Or more glass, less cursing?"

Peeta shakes his head. "Where did you even learn those words?"

I truly should not be proud of the things I said, but I did manage to string an impressive amount of curse words together. "Do you want me to teach you?"

He tries not to, but Peeta laughs anyway, before covering his face with his hands. All the footage of me in my pretty little girl dresses must have fooled him. "You should ask the doctors in 13," Peeta boasts. "I could school you, little girl."

"So, that's what the burned bread was about," I joke. "I'll take notes next time." The air between us clears a little. It feels nice to see Peeta looking cheerful again. His hands aren't shaking anymore either.

He waits a few silent seconds then bumps the toe of my boot with his. I take this as a sign that we're doing better and breathe a little easier. After glancing my way he goes back to drawing in the brown, pine straw-covered earth. He draws a line, then a few more. It's the frame to a house. Windows, then shutters appear. "What next?" he asks, seeing that I'm watching him.

"Trees," I tell him. Any good house needs lots of trees in its yard. "Ones that you can climb." He obliges and draws leafy trees. He even adds apples. "A cat," I tell him and a scraggly cat with a crooked tail and bitten ear appears.

I lean in to touch his drawing, feel the indentations among the tiniest specks of gravel in the soil. The way he draws perfectly straight lines mesmerizes me. I wonder what goes through his head when he does this, what makes his hands so steady in this moment. I can steady my hands to shoot a bow, but this is completely different.

"I missed you," he breathes in my ear. The words echo through my shoulders and arms making me wince to stop the forward movement

I swallow and flash a nervous grin, taking up a sudden interest in a honey mushroom a few feet away.

Three little words—sweet, sentimental and loaded, but it's his tone, even more so than the words, that's too much a reminder of our history and the expectation. Us. Star-crossed lovers of District 12. I chose to be friends with Peeta. Everyone, my mother and Haymitch included, expects us to be more. It doesn't feel like it's my choice. And I'm just so tired of everyone else deciding what to do with my life. From the gamemakers to Snow to the trial I didn't know I had, I'd just like to make my own decisions.

I shake my head at Peeta. He must not see the dread in my eyes because he keeps talking—telling me all about what he did during our days apart. He tells me about the pitcher of water Haymitch dumped over on his kitchen table while celebrating his chess win, and the raisin bread he accidently flavored with cumin instead of cinnamon. This is how he wanted our evening to be. Meaningless conversation. Boring even. He's had enough excitement with the Games and the war that he now hopes for his days to pass without incident.

I'm usually quiet when he talks. He's the conversationalist; he could probably chat squirrel into giving out the secret location of its acorn store. He can usually pry a few words out of me: I'm fine. A mosquito bit me. My mother sent me new toothpaste. I'm not saying these things tonight. "Are you okay?" he finally asks.

He asks me this question several times a day. I know he's only trying to help. At first it was annoying, now I've just accepted it. I can answer if I want. Sometimes I do. Peeta rubs my arm. "Whatever it is you're upset about. It's okay."

_It's not okay_, I just want to scream. None of it is okay. And I can feel it coming on, the way my head, my pulse, my chest—everything starts to race and lose focus at the same time. I try to hold on, to not go to that dark place.

"I made cookies," Peeta says. "This morning. We can have them when we get back."

I concentrate on the cookies: a sweet highlight for a somewhat bitter day. And I'm back in the woods, with Peeta. I sigh, wondering what it is we're doing. I'm brooding. I shouldn't be. This is my home. Peeta, he's just sitting in an unfamiliar place waiting on a girl who throws vases at his head.

We're out here because we're avoiding Victor's Village—and what really needs to be said. The jokes were a bandage, when what we need is to know what we tripped over before we scraped our knees.

I do not want to have this conversation, but know I have to.

"Peeta." I wait for him to look at me before continuing. "The other night, can we just forget that happened?"

"No," Peeta says firmly. "I've forgotten enough things." It's his attempt at a joke. He's as funny as Plutarch when he's not falling backward into a bowl of punch.

It's the simplest solution. We'll just keep on as we were, so of course he doesn't agree. "Why not?"

"It was nice hearing you laugh that night," Peeta says with a sincerity that reminds me not to be mad at him.

"Everything after midnight?" I counter.

He gives me an eyebrow, opens his mouth to say something, but stops and studies me.

"It can't happen again." My eyes dart to him angrily, then to a pinecone a couple of yards away. The attempt at a sleepover, the kiss in the bathroom—all of this is rolled into those four words. "I shouldn't have done it. I wasn't thinking straight." I throw the stick I was playing with as hard as I can.

"It reminded me…" he snaps his stick in two.

And that's exactly the problem—what it reminded him.

"We're friends." This has become the sugarcoated phrase I use to push him away. Friends don't kiss each other, especially not on the neck. I look for another stick to throw. It sounds so much less threatening than I don't love you. It's positive. I do care for him, always will. But other than dry dinner conversation and an occasional nap on each other's shoulders I don't know what will become of us.

"Okay. I'm just confused by some of the things you do." Frustration hangs in his voice. He's saying it's my fault and I don't appreciate it.

"There's a line," I tell him, losing all the calm the woods had restored.

"Where?" He says this bluntly. "Where is the line between falling asleep together on the couch and . . ."

He trails off. A kiss. That's what he's not saying.

"I don't know." I really wish I hadn't thrown that stick away.

"You do know or you wouldn't have said it."

Why is Peeta always right? I don't answer him because I'm too busy stewing. I just want to run away. The sun will start setting soon. He'll probably get the wrong idea about that too. Why did I bring him out here again? I hide my head in my elbows as I hunch over. Peeta stays with his back against the rock, drawing again with the half of the stick he snapped.

But I don't leave. I stay with him, unready to face the town, my house or the nightmares I know will be waiting for me when I return.

"I'm just trying to figure this out," Peeta says gently.

I stare at him. This does need figuring out. "I'm confused." It's my honest answer. I suppose I do know exactly where that line is—anything with lips involved. The other stuff, maybe I shouldn't worry about it.

Deep breaths—one of my doctors once told me it's supposed to clear my head. When I try this now, all it does is make me realize that there's a bitter breeze gusting against this side of the rock, cutting right into my cotton shirt.

I scoot a little closer to Peeta, letting the wind hit him, not me. He makes a noise like he has coal dust stuck in the back of his throat. "What were you just saying?" he asks in a voice that's entirely too innocent to be convincing.

"Shut up."

"Are you cold?" It's almost a tease.

"No," I huff, even though I'm considering tucking my arms under my shirt. "I…uh….maybe," I give up.

"Come here," he chastises. "We can't have that."

Peeta's warm hands run down my arms. Just one of his hands practically covers my entire upper arm—and stays there for longer than I'd like. My goosebumps aren't complaining, though.

"This," I motion to what some might interpret as a fond gesture. "It's only okay because I'm cold." I have to swallow my pride to say that last word.

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of it otherwise," he says in mock seriousness.

"None of that other stuff," I cringe.

"What stuff?" he asks.

He knows very well what I mean. "You know."

"What?" He puts on his innocent face. He wears the mask well. He's trying to get me to say the word. I'm avoiding it like Haymitch avoids bar soap and dish detergent. The word seems almost as dangerous as the act itself.

I shake my head.

"The cheesebuns? I'm pretty sure you can't live without those."

Now, he's just being ridiculous. I hit his arm. Not hard, but just enough to make my point. "No."

He rubs the spot on his bicep like it actually hurt. I wonder if I'm going to get a lecture on suppressing my violent tendencies. I've been told that I should not manifest my frustrations by striking out against others. Does punching Peeta count? I'm really not sure, especially not in this context.

He takes a deep breath and turns towards me. "Katniss, I get it." He leaves all references to a certain four-letter word and his cheesebuns behind. "I'm happy that we're friends." He puts his hands on his knees. "And I'd like to stay that way."

Peeta always wanted more than friendship. But he can't love me anymore, not after all we've been through." Really?" It comes out higher than I mean it to

A nod. Slow and deliberate. His eyes find mine. He's sincere and I'm almost blissful thinking of a world without kisses.

My hand goes to my neck. Days later, and the feeling never completely left. But when I really think about it—that wasn't what I was mad at. It was a poignant reminder of one night a year ago, when a boy and a girl so different from us shared spiced milk. No, my rage was triggered by the all too familiar reflection—a look at a couple that never really was. We were just pawns, rooks maybe, in a game of war and everything leaves me so confused.

"Besides," Peeta says after a pause, rubbing that spot on his arm again. "I'd rather have you as a friend, than…."

I hold up a fist and give him my best menacing look.

"Exactly," he laughs and it's settled.

He stands up, dusts off his pants and asks if it's time to go. I hesitate. It's taken this long for us to get past the argument and my anxiety—to get to a place where we're comfortable again. It would be such a shame to have gone out here and accomplished nothing but argue. No, I want Peeta to see why I love this place. I want to give him some small thank you for putting up with me and the prescription-induced haze my head is in.

I stare into the grove of thickening trees. As if in answer to my unspoken question, a lone lightning bug blinks in the distance. Then another. I haven't caught one since I wore my hair in two braids and I suddenly have the overwhelming urge to run after one, to see that tiny spark up close—hold it between my fingers even.

I savor the feeling of the earth moving swiftly under my feet. The light is fading fast, but there's enough of it still that I barely make out an obstacle free path.

"Katniss, where are you going?" Peeta yells. I stop.

"Come here." I wave him over.

Peeta follows me at a slower pace. "Is it dangerous?" I can hear his trepidation, but he follows anyway.

"No, you'll like this," I almost sing out. My voice practically gives away my happy surprise.

I stand across from him, so close that we could put our foreheads together if we both leaned in. "Give me your hands." I hold mine out to him. "Cup them like mine."

My hands graze his and all I'm filled with the same childlike joy as I had that evening with my father so many years ago.

"It tickles." He gives me a cautious smile. "What is it?"

He opens his hands and the lightning bug takes flight. When it's between our noses it blinks yellow and I'm not sure what's brighter—its glow or Peeta's smile.


	9. Chapter 9: Debugged

**Chapter 9: Debugged**

**(or For Peeta's Sake)**

_Author's Note:_

**Thanks for all of the amazing reviews. It means a lot to me.**

**Remember this story is rated T (not anything lower) in case you're the squeamish, giggling, blushing or lock-yourself-in-the-closet type…**

**Hint for the next chapter, I went to a bakery to do some research (taste-testing) for it.**

**

* * *

**

Put me down!" I scream, punching Peeta's back with my fists. "People are going to think I'm drunk."

This only makes him laugh harder. "That might be an improvement."

I would glare at Peeta if he didn't have me thrown over his shoulder. Instead I ram the sharpest point of my elbow into him.

"That hurts," he complains. "Are we even now?"

"Almost," I grumble. I consider throwing another elbow, but don't. The jab was never about getting even for my foot. That was an accident, one that I'm not at all mad about.

I do wish Peeta, with all of his one-legged grace, would learn how to walk without crashing all of his weight down. Then, my toe might have been spared. I'd offer to teach him to walk more stealthily, if I didn't think he was a lost cause.

This just leaves me with a smashed toe—the result of Peeta's glee for the lightning bugs. Running after one, and not watching where he was going, his boot crashed down on my foot—hard. I'll be lucky if it's just a black toenail. I'm hoping it's not worse.

The elbow was for embarrassing me and not taking 'no' for an answer.

Even though I let out an inadvertent yelp, I tried to brush off the toe stomp as nothing. I was wearing boots after all. Peeta wasn't buying it. A couple of hobbles in, he offered to carry me. I almost threw him an elbow then but continued on carefully placing my weight on the inner part of my foot so my walk would appear normal. If I let my mind wander, I'd place my weight wrong and limp a step or two. I made it to the entrance of Victor's Village and I was counting the steps until I could take my boot off. One unsuspecting pause later and I'm loaded up like a sack of flour. I should have known he wanted to get his chivalrous way.

"You're just drawing attention to yourself," he comments when I yell at him. He's holding on a little too tightly for me to jump down without hurting him. And really, I'd rather not be dropped on top of everything else and there's no point in adding to my embarrassment.

We're almost to our houses anyway. Haymitch, who only comes out of his house to buy liquor, play chess and occasionally finagle dinner, wouldn't blink at the sight. Greasy Sae would tell Peeta not to hurt his back, and her granddaughter would probably ask if she could play too.

We approach the doorframe and I brace myself for a good knock to the head, being slammed sideways or some kind of awkward fumbling where I get dumped to the ground and end up with even more bruises.

"Peata! I can walk." It's my last ditch effort to spare myself a goose egg to my head.

"Limp. You can limp. I've got this."

One hand turns the knob. He moves to the side and we navigate through the frame without so much as a bony elbow getting grazed. The motion is practiced and precise. Then I get it. This is Peeta showing off. I keep a tiny laugh to myself and give Peeta my best impression of being mad at him as he deposits me on his eyesore of a couch.

He leaves for the kitchen and I yank off my boot. I'm curious to see the damage, but for Peeta's sake I keep my sock on and decide to wait until I'm alone.

Peeta's house is the same as we left it earlier this evening—only it seems like days have passed. His notes are scattered by the phone, there's a sketchbook on the coffee table and now I notice a pile of folded laundry on one the chairs. His socks are balled up in the customary way for the District 13 troops. I'd almost forgotten how neatly he folds everything_._ If I had clean laundry, he could help me fold my laundry. But today I'm hanging on to mismatched socks until I absolutely have to do laundry. That's one of the perks of living alone and a task I do as little as possible.

"You know I'm sorry," Peeta reenters the room and hands me a yellow plate of shortbread cookies.

I scoot over to make room for Peeta on the far cushion of the couch. He doesn't take my hint and he sits down on the next cushion over, his hand dangling dangerously over my socked foot.

"How bad is it?" he looks as of he's about to pinch the toe of my sock to pull it off.

"Fine," I fib. "Getting the boot off helped." That, at least, is the truth.

"So, you'll live?"

A bad joke about not needed it cut off stays firmly clamped in my jaw. "I'll manage." With that I curl my legs to the side so my foot is off limits.

The cookies are rich and buttery, and something I'm still not used to. I get crumbs all over my shirt and the couch.

"Thanks for getting me out of the house, Katniss. I had fun."

Do I remind him I had to order him out of the house and that I'm the one who got hurt tonight? "No problem."

Sitting so close to Peeta in the light, I can see his scars, the bags under his eyes, the slight cowlick he has at his temple. He'll probably need a haircut soon and I wonder where he'll get it done with so few people in District 12.

"Do you think that we could go out there again? I'd really like some greens. But if you could bring me some, that would be—"

My hand goes to his cheek and Peeta stops midsentence.

It's hard to spot, the blonde hair against his skin, but it comes off at my touch. I hold it out on my index finger, examining it. On my finger it's golden and almost white at the tip. Even the merchants' eyelashes are different than the ones from the Seam.

"Eyelash," I hold out the interrupting stray.

Peeta gives me an amused smile. "Make a wish," he says, not even bothering to finish his previous thought.

I shrug, offering it to him instead. I wouldn't know what to wish for. That hadn't been my intention. It was simply out of place and bothering me.

He blows it off my finger, concentrating hard on some thought tucked tightly behind his scrunched eyes.

"You didn't have to wish for me taking you to the woods again," I tell him. "I will."

He pokes my nose. "How do you know what I wished for?"

* * *

"Good morning," a blonde-haired boy chirps as he stands over my bed.

I throw the covers over my head. It muffles something that's supposed to sound like "Go away."

This is my reward for making peace with Peeta—his annoying habit of making sure I'm out of the bed in the morning. Peeta has his good qualities, but being cheerful in the morning isn't one of them. It's simply too early for that.

He waits a few minutes then folds the covers down. "Come on Katniss, you always complain about getting a late start."

"Mmmmpph," I say into the pillow under my face.

He sits in the chair. It might as well be his chair as often as he sits in it. It used to be more often, but I've generally gotten better about getting myself up. He's also gotten more strategic about getting me out of bed.

Several more minutes go by. "Katniss," Peeta taps his foot.

Just when I think he's left, he comes back into the room carrying Buttercup. I rub my eyes because I think I'm dreaming. Feisty Buttercup doesn't let anyone, except my sister, carry him. He hisses, spits, shreds any arms that come near him yet he's perfectly content in Peeta's embrace. I think he's even purring.

"He likes me," Peeta boasts before he plunks the cat down next to me. I reach up to pet the cat and think this is a rather tame attempt of Peeta's. He could do better. I think this until he snatches the pillow out from under my head while I'm leaning up toward the cat. Buttercup runs off after about two pats. Even without my pillow I try to go back to sleep. So Peeta yanks the blanket away from me and folds it neatly at the foot of the bed. This is pretty typical. Nonetheless the trick makes me more determined to stay put.

As Peeta arranges the folded blanket, I feel his hand near my foot. "Oh." I can hear the cringe in his voice. He must have seen his handiwork. I'm relieved when he leaves, I can get out of the bed and get a late start hunting. My toenail doesn't really look that bad. It's going to fall off, but the toe is fine.

I'm sitting at the edge of the bed when Peeta comes back in. "Katniss Everdeen," I hear Peeta say. It's loud, almost a yell but more of a scold. He's not playing this time.

"I'm up!" I launch myself out of the bed. "I'm up, Peeta. You win," I stomp toward the bathroom. He blocks my way.

I forgot. I'm using the guest bathroom these days. I take a step towards the hall and Peeta grabs my arm and opens the bathroom door. "I didn't know Haymitch was decorating for you these days."

Yes, the mess is still there. I should have cleaned it up days ago, not just shut it away to deal with later. I fetch a broom and dustpan from the storage closet and wonder if Peeta is going to ground me. I certainly feel like a child on restriction, maybe because I know if my mother were here she wouldn't let me get away with it.

It's my mess so I go to pick up a large piece of glass closest to the door.

"No," Peeta stops me. "You'll cut yourself." I deposit the shard into a paper bag.

"I'm serious," he steps toward me. "There aren't doctors here. If you cut yourself, I can't stitch you up. You're the only one who knows how."

Peeta carefully cleans up the bathroom. He starts with the glass. He picks up all the large pieces and sweeps all the small ones up. The shampoo comes up with water and a mop. I feel guilty as I watch him. When he's almost done I go to brush my teeth and change in the other bathroom. He's still waiting for me when I come out. Doesn't he have bread to bake?

Peeta holds a small bandage. My first thought is that he cut himself on the glass. He doesn't look like he's bleeding. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Fine." He tilts his head like he's puzzled.

"Do you want me to put that on you?"

"It's for you," he tells me.

"I'm fine," I go back to my bedroom to try and wrangle two clean socks. One black. One grey. Good enough.

"Here," he says and moves toward me with the bandage. I have no idea what needs bandaging but apparently Peeta's in the mood to mother me this morning. It could be worse.

"Your toe," he glances downward. "I didn't want you to be mad at me every time you looked at it."

My toe is in no need of a bandage. The nail won't fall off for weeks or months. I take a deep breath and try to figure out the best way to deal with it. "Peeta." I choose my words carefully. "It was an accident. Don't worry about it. I'm not mad."

"Are you sure you're not mad?"

I resist the urge to say _depends on who you ask._ I'm sure most of Panem thinks I'm mad, and maybe I am. But I'm not angry about the injury, though Peeta's insistence on bringing it up is annoying. It's not the first time something like this has happened and won't be the last. But deep down I know Peeta is the type to worry about these kinds of things.

"Look at me." I show him the back of my head. "I have bald spots where the hair won't grow in, my entire body is burned and scarred. I don't think it matters."

"It matters to me." And then I get that this is more for him than me. He doesn't want to be reminded of hurting me.

"If it will make you feel better," I oblige.

* * *

Four squirrels, two rabbits, several handfuls of milky cap mushrooms and lots of greens for Peeta—that's my haul as I come back to Victor's Village. My plan was to deliver them, but Peeta is sitting glumly on my doorstep. His posture is hunched and he's nervously sorting through the sheets of paper Buttercup isn't lounging on.

"Hey," I sit down next to him.

He always looks so happy to see me, but today his expression doesn't change. He has bad news, I can tell. "Spit it out."

He hands me a fistful of the papers, lodging a few out from under a defiant tomcat. They're hand-drawn sketches of rooms with certain areas pointed out. There's something familiar about the rooms, and then it dawns on me: These are drawings of my house, which is so very similar to Peeta's house and Haymitch's house.

"Your problem from yesterday," he says softly. "I called Beetee. He had these sketches rushed over."

"So it's true?" I gasp. Of course it's true. Of course I'm still being spied on. I don't know why I ever thought otherwise, but to see the look on Peeta's face and to hold the proof in my hands makes it seem so much more real.

Peeta moves his head to my ear. "For now. I thought you might want to get rid of a few of them."

Is he serious? I will do whatever needs to be done. I don't want my private conversations ending up on the nighttime news. They're probably piecing together a special on my ongoing murderous streak because I killed a wolf spider in my kitchen the other day. Peeta told me to take it outside. I said my boot was a faster way to deal with it, especially since Buttercup seemed to want it for a playmate.

"It's supposed to storm soon," Peeta says pointing to the few cheerful-looking puffy white clouds overhead. "I don't know, if your house were to get hit by lightning, frying all the electronics—that would be a shame, wouldn't it?"

"A crying shame," I agree and wonder if this isn't my favorite side of Peeta. Perky-in-the- morning Peeta defintely isn't in the running.

"Make sure you tell Dr. Aurelius about the storm," he instructs. "I doubt they'd put new devices in, and if they try, we'll figure it out." This part is so quiet that I feel the words he says into my ear more than I hear them.

For taking the time to help me with this, I'm so grateful I could kiss Peeta. I mean this in the figurative sense. Literally, that would cause all sorts of problems.

"So what do we do?" I ask. I want this over with. I'm tired of being in the Games.

He hands me a hammer and a tiny screwdriver. "Find them."

Last night was a distraction. Now, it's back to the world I live in: zero privacy and constant plotting. I'm certain the listening devices were not part of my release. I tolerate Dr. Aurelius: the phone calls and pills. Spying is unacceptable. The war is over. I'm just a mad girl who wants to be left alone.

The devices are hidden in the walls, baseboards, kitchen cabinets, bathroom fixtures, closets—even the basement. Peeta tells me we're lucky the houses are older and we don't have the new glitter-sized devices that would be impossible to find.

I hold the flashlight and Peeta tries to wrench them out with as little damage to the house as possible. Sometimes we resort to tweezers. Peeta finds a camera under the desk in the room Snow visited. I haven't been in there since I threw the roses out.

"What about your house, Peeta?" I ask while he's prying a disk out of the top drawer of a bathroom vanity.

The screwdriver scratches the bottom of the wood drawer and the metallic coin pops up. Peeta plops it in the sink and runs some water over it.

"Learned this from Haymitch," he motions to the filling sink. "I'm down at least one listening device thanks to his spills. That certainly saved us some trouble. I think he had it figured out all along and that's why he kept his house so messy. Those stray shirts and blankets muffled the noise."

"Don't you get any ideas," he tacks on.

I smirk, thinking of great heaps of laundry strategically piled around a house. What fun Buttercup would have sunning himself on piles of towels, hiding behind sheets and shirts only to pop out to attack defenseless ankles. "We'll see," is all the response I give him.

In my bedroom, the diagram shows that the listening device may be in a secret compartment in one of the bedposts off the headboard. This device must be operable if my doctor found out about my nightmare. I wonder if he heard Peeta's voice from the nights he slept over, or if anyone else is listening. Peeta and I have discussed so much in this house. Not my one secret, though. That one is safe.

Sitting on the mattress, I take the screwdriver and wedge a round fingernail size disk out of my bed. "Can you imagine?" I blush and laugh at the same time, thinking about what the Capitol must have been listening for in a bed. I sincerely doubt they were listening for victors who talked in their sleep.

Peeta doesn't share my laugh. He stayed away from the bed when we entered the room, but now he's backed up against the wall with his hands jammed in his pockets. The color has washed from his face. "Actually," he trails off. When his eyes meet mine, he looks lost. I've seen the expression before; he wears it when he wants desperately to remember something.

"Oh," and the revelation of what he's saying sucks every drop of laughter out of my body, leaving only the dry, grim truth.

Maybe he can't imagine—not without knowing what's real or not. Peeta knows what he's seen in videos and is slowly getting memories back, but his memories of me are the most tampered with. I don't know what the Capitol made him think or if the fragments he does have makes him think more happened than actually did.

I hear the clunk of the screwdriver hitting the floor. I should have expected this. Of course it would come up just like the sleep syrup or the berries. He asked about the nights on the train, but I never got past the nightmares and lighthearted stories before one of us fell asleep.

Peeta fishes the screwdriver out from under the bed and takes the device from my fingers. "I know what will make you feel better," he whispers like it never came up.

He's the one with holes in his memories. I have some of his answers But I can't find my voice to simply tell him no, nothing happened, but my head is reeling with the right way to phrase it. And really, with our history, it's not that simple.

He offers his hand and leads me out of the room to the concrete sidewalk in front of the house.

Not much is paved in the district, but the sidewalks in Victor's Village are. I'd rather have grass or a dirt path, but this makes them look a little more like the Capitol, even if the paving isn't the purple or orange I'd seen there.

Peeta dumps the listening devices we've collected out on the sidewalk. The sidewalks were originally paved white, but have turned grey because of the coal dust.

He hands me a hammer and gives me a smile so dazzling and full of teeth I know he's not faking.

"Yes, please!" I finally find my voice.

The first hit is for Peeta and the memories he doesn't have. As hard as it to remember some events in my past, it must be harder for Peeta to not remember. The hammer comes down hard on the silver disk. I ground the disk to dust thinking about what would have happened if Peeta and I had been forced to marry. I take my anger for the Capitol out on the remaining devices. I hit them all with too much force, ground them all into the sidewalk too long. And when I've used up all my energy Peeta hits what's left with a surprising ferocity. The Capitol has hurt him too, maybe he's been damaged more than me, but it doesn't matter.

And it's done. Every last bug is smashed and swept up into a bag to dispose of tomorrow. Tonight, we're exhausted.

I could collapse right here on the sidewalk, but I go inside and wash all traces of the Capitol off my hands before falling onto the couch.

Peeta comes and sits on the chair closest to the couch. There's a question he needs answered. I've avoided it long enough and we sit in silence as I piece together what to say.

I haven't spent much time thinking about Peeta in that way, but I can't say the thought never crossed my mind. Surely, that's what the others thought we were doing all those nights on the train and in the training center. And we were supposed to get married.

"I'm sorry I have to ask," he says softly, urging me to speak.

Still the words don't come.

He leans toward the couch, piercing me with an expectant gaze.

_No_. It's the word on the tip of my tongue. It reaches my teeth but never escapes my lips. All I can do is stare at Peeta, which probably makes him think something did happen.

"So here's what I do know," he starts. "I know we were engaged. It might have been for show, but I know we spent lots of nights together and you've told me that wasn't for show. I have these memories of us…_. _I don't remember."

"Just sleep," I finally manage to get two syllables out in a sincere enough tone before his speech gets any longer. "Nothing more."

The conversation should end here. Peeta should say thanks and make his way home for the way for the night. But he bites his lip. He does this when something about the past doesn't make sense or wasn't what he expected.

"Did you think we had?" I ask before my brain can filter this question. He doesn't even have to answer. I can see it on his face and I have the sudden urge to lock myself in a closet.

"I didn't know," he tries to meet my gaze, but I duck under a throw pillow. "Haymitch didn't know."

He was talking to Haymitch about this? If the couch were to collapse through the floor and crash down into the basement, it would do nothing to distract from how horribly embarrassed I am.

"Of course we didn't," he says this like he's trying to convince himself. I clench the throw pillow tightly over my ears afraid of what's coming next. "I wouldn't….you wouldn't…. There were some things….maybe it's not real…that made me think we were more than—"

"Peeta!" I throw the pillow at him as hard as I can to interrupt wherever that was going.

"I hate having these gaps in my memories!" He's talking with his hands again, wildly motioning. "Walking around not, knowing…I'm sorry, Katniss. Really. It's better this way. So much better." He's grasping his head like he's trying to push his shiny memories out. "It's kind of like they gave me a chance to start over."

He keeps talking, every word making me cringe a little more. His foot starts to do that nervous twitching thing again.

_Think, Katniss._ What can I do to make him stop talking?

I clamp my hand over his mouth and the words stop flowing. Only then can I clear my head and figure out how to deal with this.

"Peeta," I say with all the composure I can summon. "You didn't know. It's okay."

I remove my hand from his mouth. He takes the hint and doesn't immediately plow headlong into an apologetic soliloquy.

Whatever he was made to think, I can't be mad at him. All I can do is set the record straight. It's up to him whether he wants to believe me or not. I might be a liar. I lie all the time. But I don't lie about memories to Peeta and I do want him to believe me.

So I give him one more memory of our nights together. "Peeta, if you were feeling especially brave, you might kiss my forehead or cheek—but only if you thought I was sleeping. Trust me, that's all that happened."

I meant it to prove to him that our nights were innocent, but as soon as I say it I wish I could take it back. I don't want to keep memories from him, but given the last few days, it's not something I should bring up.

He takes a few deep breaths as he processes the news. His foot steadies and I regret telling him a little less.

"One more question?" he asks.

There is nothing more I'd like than to change the subject. "Sure." After all, what could possibly be worse than asking a girl you once loved if you forgot something important?

Peeta takes a throw pillow off the other end of the couch, waiting for an invitation to sit down next to me. I sit up and make room for him. The way he looks at me makes me think he's going do something both nostalgic and stupid. I feel a knot in my stomach and cringe at what I think is going to happen. Then I feel his hand on my stomach. It's warm and the knot begins to melt.

"So there was never a baby?" His voice is slow and hushed.

I put my hand on top of his. "No." I expected this question to come up. In fact, I've been waiting for it, so I'm not shocked into silence again.

"Haymitch told me there wasn't one, the doctors in 13 did too. I wanted to hear it from you."

I'm thinking about how it should have been me to tell him, but I wasn't there for him. I wasn't well enough to help him.

"The memory just doesn't feel right and I don't know why. I've seen the tapes, I can almost remember why I lied, but some part of me was hanging on to the fact that maybe it wasn't a lie. I know there was a never a baby, but I can't shake this empty feeling, almost like I wanted it. Does this make any sense to you?"

I trace the lines on his hand, where each bone is. No one else in the world can have this conversation with him. He might not remember that night perfectly, but he remembers the emotion. "Perfect sense, Peeta."

This is the point where I'm supposed to continue to tell him why I understand, but I just play with his hand. I'm not stalling on purpose, it just happens. And all the while I'm thinking about a tiny version of Peeta: a little boy he could teach to wrestle, a little girl he could show how to knead dough. That's what he deserves, not clinging to the memory of a baby he made up on live TV, a baby I'm sure he wanted. I try to tell him without saying the words. "You would make the best dad," I whisper. It's the only thing I can think of that won't break his all-too-fragile heart.

Peeta lays his head in my lap. He doesn't ask for an invitation, not in this moment. He stares up at me. "What about you? Wouldn't you be a good mom?"

_The worst. _For me, there won't be any children: no children to inherit my family's depression, no children to ever be reaped should the games ever resume, no children to tell about the deaths I caused in the Games and the war. There would also be no children to teach to hunt, to sing or to pass my family's plant book down to.

It doesn't change my mind at all and we're both careful not to even imply a shared future. But it gives Peeta something to look forward to. He's curled up with me and we're talking about babies. Two years ago I would have been mortified by this situation, but it doesn't bother me. Not after all that's been said and done today. In fact, I feel like a weight has been lifted.

I'm lost in thought when Peeta starts to snore lightly. He did look so tired so I leave him where he is and try to keep my hands out of his hair.

I hear the front door open and I know it's Haymitch. The way he closes the door isn't as thoughtful as Sae. He rustles around where his screwdriver set has been left.

"Getting my tools back, sweetheart, if you're here," he calls.

"Thanks," I half yell, half whisper this.

I thought he would just leave, but he walks to the living room. He's probably looking for dinner. "Food's on the counter," I say as loudly as I dare, but the footsteps continue to the back of the couch.

He peers down at the snoring baker. "Good to know you're on better terms," he scoffs. "I was getting tired of burned bread."

He turns to leave. "What's wrong with it if it's a little burned?" I ask.

"Apparently nothing," he mumbles and is on his way again.

Absently, I'm running my fingers over Peeta's scarred arm. It's too much, though. He wakes up.

"Uhmmm, I must have fallen asleep, I'm sorry," he stretches. "Give me a minute and I'll go home."

"You could….," I stop myself. "Napping is okay. You looked tired."

"The nightmares are worse."

I wasn't expecting such a blunt response from Peeta.

"All those terrible things they confused me with mix with my nightmares from the games and our last mission. Some nights I don't even want to go to sleep."

I can see the horror in his eyes. "The sleeping pills don't help, do they?" For me at least, it makes it harder to escape the nightmares. Instead of snapping upright in my head, I'm left in a foggy limbo somewhere between fiery explosions and my bedroom, not really awake and not really asleep. My willpower bursts and my hands find their way to his head in a gesture that's meant to soothe me more than him.

"No. I'm okay, Katniss. Don't worry about me. I'm sure the nightmares will go away soon."

Peeta saying this only makes me think he's not okay. He checks on me. I barely check on him. "Does anything help?"

He looks at me for a long time. "I get a good night here and there."

Peeta's not the only one who's tired. My eyelids start to get heavy and I can't stop yawning. Peeta's taking up the length of the couch, and I'm slumped against the arm on the far end, nodding off only to jerk myself awake.

Blink. Peeta's asking me a question. Blink.

"Hold on," he says. He smells like rosemary today. I'm vaguely aware of being shifted. Why is the couch moving?

"You can let go," he tells me. "Or not," I think that's what I hear when it's still again.

"Peeta." Blink. Try to stay awake for a few more minutes.

"Ssshh, I'm right here." He rubs my arm. Blink.

My head is on my pillow now. It doesn't smell like rosemary.

The blanket is pulled up to my shoulders, folded over. Blink. Peeta is putting my boots in their usual spot under the chair in my room. Blink. The lights are off. His footfalls approach my bed. "Sweet dreams, Katniss."


	10. Chapter 10: Not Alone

**Chapter 10. Not Alone**

**(I tried to publish this last night, but it never posted, and then then FFN locked up, so who knows what is going on...)**

Playlist:

_The Way I Am, Ingrid Michaelson_

_Hide and Seek, Imogen Heap_

* * *

I dream of lightning bugs. They illuminate the meadow in an ethereal show of lights. Thousands of them twinkle in the distance, bouncing, glowing like a thousand tiny suns casting off the darkness.

Peeta sits with me on a picnic blanket and we seem content. We watch the performance and walk home hand in hand, smiling, whispering, laughing.

I wake up in my bedroom startled—saddened even—by my empty hand. Of course he's not here. What I can't explain is why I feel so let down.

All day I can't shake the dream. It weighs on me as I try to hunt. It's not Peeta that bothers me; it was how I felt because I can't remember the last time I was that happy. I have flashes of happy memories: the first time I shot a rabbit, dancing with Prim after bringing home a particularly good haul. But I don't have recent happy memories that aren't tainted with pain or death.

I'm grateful when the rain comes because it masks the tears streaming down my face. I leave howling wind and thunderbolts behind me as I slam the door to Peeta's house behind me.

"Hey Katniss. How are you?" Peeta says cheerfully as I track water across his floor. He puts a towel around my shoulders and after a few minutes I dry my hair. Soon I have a sandwich in front of me. Peeta is always good for a meal. I share the contents of my game bag with him and call it fair. He puts his plate and the sink and starts his prep work for his next project. "Since you're here, do you want to help?"

I shrug.

"We can make bear claws."

"What's that?" Curiosity gets the best of my brooding. I've never heard of it and sincerely hope it doesn't involve me actually having to acquire a bear's paw. I couldn't get any hunting done in this storm, not that I would want to be anywhere near a bear.

He reads my look of concern. "It's a treat the same size as a bear's paw. It's somewhere between a cake and a bun. We can put raisins or nuts in it."

"Cheese?" I ask.

"Hmmm." Peeta puts his hand on his chin. "I was going to make them with almonds."

I see the bowl of nuts among the ingredients he neatly lines up before beginning a project.

"Please." As soon as I say it, I know I shouldn't have had asked him to change his plans. We shouldn't waste food.

"I think we sometimes used to have those in the bakery. I'm not sure I remember." He walks toward a shelf in the back of the kitchen, pulls a blue book off a crowded shelf and flips through it. "It's basically the same as the recipe I was going to use," he says still focusing on the pages. "You just add the cheese as a filling before baking."

He sets the book down in front of me. It's full of hand-written recipes. Ingredients, steps, even notes on how to store and display the products fill the pages. In the margins are shortcuts, ingredient variations and helpful tips on how to make dough rise in humid weather scribbled in different handwriting and ink ranging from yellowing brown to the more recent black. It reminds me of another family book compiled over the generations. "This is your family's recipe book?" I ask fanning the pages.

"Supposed to be a family secret," he winks at me.

I continue skimming pages thinking about the care that went into this over the years.

Peeta produces dough he evidently made this morning. "What do we need for the filling?"

I flip back to the page I've kept my thumb on and read the ingredients to him. He pours them in one by one, measuring by sight and weight. He doesn't consult the marked spoons or cups that I would have to use.

He has a quiet determination when he's baking. It's contagiously calming and I even take a turn beating the sugar, egg and cream cheese mixture.

My adventures in baking usually involve something burning, the oven smelling horrible, missing ingredients or bread that never cooks through the center. My mother tried to teach me as one of my talents, but after accidentally melting a spatula into one of her favorite loaf pans, we decided to try something that didn't involve any kind of indoor flame.

Peeta's kitchen has been transformed into a small version of his bakery. It's set up similarly to my kitchen, but sees a lot more use than Sae coming to bring me dinner or me attempting eggs. He keeps one counter clear for his current project and the rest is full of canisters, mixers and various gadgets. He's stocked his pantry with baking ingredients: huge flour sacks, immense drums of sugar, cans of nuts, small bottles of spices. His father installed an extra oven when they first moved in.

When filling is stirred, Peeta rolls out the dough. He offers me a portion, but after watching folding, and layering and drizzling sticky filling, I decline. He begins to shape them to make them into claws. I laugh because they really don't look anything like an actual bear's claw.

"Bears don't have that many claws," I tell him when he scores the pastry too many times. I pick up a knife to help him with this final step.

He arranges them on two flat cookie sheets and walks over to the other counter to let them rise.

The rain is beating against the window and the thunder outside booms so loudly I look at the floor to see if it's shaking. As I'm looking down, I see Peeta take the smallest misstep. He doesn't place the weight on his foot correctly and I snap into focus. Something isn't right.

Peeta slams the cookie sheets onto the counter and grabs the handle of the lower oven so tightly his knuckles turn white. He clenches his jaw and his whole body twitches.

I'm at his side before the rumble fades to nothing. "It's okay," I soothe. "It's not real."

He opens his eyes long enough to take me in. Even his pupils twitch.

"Katniss." His whisper is strained.

"What can I do?" I rest my head on the back of his shoulder, and rub my hand down his arm. It's what he does to calm me down. I hope it will have the same effect on him.

When I feel his muscles stop jerking, I help walk him to the couch. He collapses and I bring him pills and water and turn down the lights for the headache he tells me will follow.

He motions for me to sit down next to him. And he holds me. That's all he wants—to wrap his arms around me and squeeze. If holding me takes away the tiniest bit of fear or pain, then I'll stay for as long as I'm needed. When his grip loosens some, I urge him to rest.

I turn to leave but he grabs my wrist. He doesn't have to speak. His pained eyes say it all. I sit down and he rests his head on my lap. My fingers run through his locks until he falls asleep.

It didn't use to be this hard to sit still. I could do it for weeks. But thinking about sitting still makes me want to shift my legs, sit on the floor or pace. I can reach one of Peeta's supply catalogs so I pass the time by scouring the pages. The page on seeds intrigues me. I've always gathered strawberries and blackberries, having them in my yard might be interesting.

"What are we getting?" Peeta startles me. I thought he was sleeping.

"I was looking at the seeds. Some of the neighbors have planted gardens." I say. "Feeling any better?"

He plasters on a smile so fake I wonder if he's imitating Effie. "I feel like I fell down a mine shaft and my head landed on a pick."

"So better?" Earlier his condition rated "run over and dragged by his feet behind a rickety train." For that, he gets more water and more pills.

The bear claws, which had too much time to rise and look rather swollen, finally get put in the oven while Peeta waits for the new medicine to start working. To pass time I clean the kitchen as quietly as I can. The bear claws are a little burnt when I take them out, but that's what happens when I cook.

Sae rustles the door. "Oh there you are," she says, peeking her head in.

I signal for her to be quiet. "It's one of his bad days."

She gives me a sympathetic nod and places a large container of stew on the counter. She pauses on her way out, "Let me know if you need a hand."

The offer, much appreciated as it is, makes me try a little harder to manage this on my own. I bring Peeta's bowl over to the couch and eat with him. The stew tastes like venison and I wonder if someone else is hunting in the district.

Peeta's movements are jerky and the spoon in his hand is shaking, splattering stew everywhere but his mouth. It takes an effort on my part but I finally ask him if he needs help. He tries a few more bites. I impatiently grab the spoon out of his hand and feed him the rest of his meal.

He's not doing well, not recovering like he should. The flashback drained him of all his energy and replaced the cheerful baker with a wracked torture victim. I half expect him to tell me to go away.

Today is the first I've heard Peeta complain in a long time. He's been living this since he's come home, but only now do I see how much pain he lives with—and hides so well. The pills haven't had much effect. He needs a distraction, a pleasant thought, a story. And I have just the thing—but it's also exactly the kind of thing that should never leave my lips. But if it helps, today can be the exception.

"How about I tell you about my dream last night?" I say in a hushed voice.

He puts his head on my shoulder. Usually it's the other way around. As he shifts his weight I can feel how excruciatingly tense muscles are. It's like cuddling a piece of lumber.

"We were sitting on a blanket watching lightning bugs." I keep my tone neutral, willing him to not read too much into it._ Please don't let me regret this._

"Like the other night? I liked that." He sounds tired.

"No," I tell him. "There were more lightning bugs than I've ever seen. They lit up the whole meadow, the part behind the school. We were so happy in the dream. It made me sad to wake up."

"Oh," he breathes out. "That sounds nice."

"We were so happy," I repeat myself, marveling at a concept that seems as unreachable as the moon.

"We're not happy now?" He says this as if it's surprising and he hasn't been crumpled in pain all day.

I'd give him a shove if he were well. Instead, I pop the band of the bottom of my braid, divide the tail of hair into three sections and fold my hair to the center, move on to the next section and repeat.

"What will make you that happy, Katniss?" He says this after I've redone the bottom of my braid three times. His question is genuine. I twirl the bottom of my hair around my finger. I don't know what would make me happy. I have everything I need to survive: a house, food, water. I feel so empty that something must be missing.

I look at the lock of black hair between my fingers to avoid Peeta's stare. I don't want to face him, so I inspect the ends of my hair: dead and split—sometimes in two, sometimes more. If my prep team were here, they'd have a speech about the importance of conditioner. Maybe my mother will send some conditioner. My mother, half of my now split-apart family. And I know the answer to Peeta's question. "Family," I say, eyes downcast.

Peeta hands me the hair band I tossed aside, trying to move his head to find my gaze. "Well, you're my family, Katniss."

However empty I feel inside, it must be worse for him. His brothers are gone, so are both of his parents and most of his friends from town. Outside of Victor's Village all that's left for him are ghosts. He's lost too.

"Okay," I nod.

And I forget how hard I've been pushing him away. I shift positions so my head is on his chest. The tears well up in my eyes and my vision blurs.

"Katniss, I should tell you something."

I don't want him to talk. Silence. It's the only thing that seems bearable. But Peeta's always had a way with words. They heal him. Sometimes they heal me. So I keep my cheek over his heart, with one ear listening for a steady rhythmic thump and the other for his remedy.

"Don't be mad at me. About the bear claws, I wanted you to stay with me. These bad storms can trigger my episodes. I've been feeling like I was getting sick and I didn't want to be alone."

My first instinct is to yell at him for being so ridiculous. Instead I push that anger down and do what he would do for me.

"Sssh," I put my finger on his lips. "We take care of each other. Remember? Just ask when you need help. That's what I'm here for."

And I don't want to be alone, either. Not today. That's why I came to his house. I try to choke the words out to tell him. A tiny droplet rolls down my cheek and splashes on his shirt. "I miss Prim." It's a whisper almost drowned out by the sleepy lull of the rain on the windows.

I hate how much I need him in that moment. I forget that he's sick and let him comfort me. We come together, a pair matched in our pain and loss. I let him hold me and I cry. I hate the crying. It makes me feel so weak, but today it feels like a cleansing of my sadness and I don't want it to end.

"Hey," he whispers, rubbing my arm. "It's going to get better. I know it." He's the sick one and he's taking care of me.

I try to wipe the water from my eyes and choke back a sob, and that's when he lets go. I don't want him to let go, I want him to stay until the tears run out.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he says softly. "There's something I want in the upstairs bathroom too."

Peeta stands up and offers his hand. I want to tell him that I don't feel like moving from the spot, that I'll stay here, but he's so shaky on his feet I get up to wedge myself under his arm and help him walk upstairs.

I sit down on the edge of the bathtub while Peeta attends to something at the sink. He joins me on the cold surface. "Close your eyes."

He doesn't appear to be joking so I do. He puts a wet washcloth across my puffy eyes and holds it in place. It's warm on my swollen eyelids. I'm not sure if it's okay to like this, but I'm betrayed by a long sigh.

I can't see the mirror now, but if I could I think I'd see that he's treating me as gently as my mother or Prim ever did.

When the cloth gets cold, I put it in the sink. While Peeta gets ready for bed, he asks me to find a jar in his medicine cabinet. Rummaging through the pain pills, flashback pills, sleeping medicine and various bottles and tubes, I'm reminded that Peeta's the one that needs looking after.

"This is for your back?" I ask, skimming the directions while he washes his face.

On top of everything else, I didn't know Peeta had back problems. He definitely shouldn't try to pick me up then.

"Sometimes the flashbacks tense my muscles," he takes the jar from me. "It makes me feel like I have the flu. This and the pain pills and I'll be fine," he assures me. I'm skeptical.

Peeta's bedroom feels unused like the rooms in my house I never go in. He stops by a dresser and pulls out a shirt. It's the first time I've sat on Peeta's bed. It's larger than mine and I feel tiny sitting on it. The bed is made of a dark cherry wood with wide masculine posts. It's lower to the ground than my bed, and when he sits down it's the perfect height for him to adjust his leg at night. His sheets are crisp and white and covered by dark blue blanket.

He takes off his boots, a pair of striped grey socks. "I'm going to change shirts," he warns, motioning for me to stop watching him.

"It's fine," I say unfazed. He was never the modest type and I got over that long ago. He looks uncertain and then I remember the burns. Maybe he doesn't want me to see him. I lift up the bottom of my shirt and flash him the tiniest bit of stomach. "Mine's the same." He saw it weeks ago when I had a fever.

"I'm tired. Can you get the lights?" he shakes his head.

And I'm at a loss for what's going on, but I do what I'm asked, lingering in case he needs anything else tonight.

There's a faint light outside so I can still make out Peeta sitting on the edge of the bed struggling with shirtsleeves and his back. "Everything okay?" I pace back toward the bed.

"Ummm," he almost hums the word he hangs onto it for so long. "I'm trying to get this place on my back. I can get it," he dismisses me, throwing an arm out in front of him like he doesn't want me to come any closer.

I smell mint and know he's opened the jar from his bathroom. "Where?" I ask, edging closer and taking the jar from the side of the bed.

In the time it takes him to answer I sneak a look at what he's obviously trying to hide. I can't see every scar and burn, but I can see enough.

"Katniss," he admonishes. "The last time you saw my burns, it didn't go well. Please."

It clicks. He thinks I'll be upset to see his burned flesh. And I might be. I think he needs to be better about asking for help. We both do. Haymitch too.

This would be so much easier if we weren't both so broken, but it's how it is. I take a deep breath and put a hand on his shoulder. "Where?" I ask again.

"In the middle," he finally directs. "Anywhere I haven't gotten."

The sticky cream, which must have been sent from the Capitol or Dr. Aurelius, numbs the skin and helps relax tense muscles. My mother never stocked anything like it, but it would have been very popular with the miners, who always came home with aching backs.

I kneel on the bed and think of my father as I go over Peeta's strained back. I want to joke with him to take it easier the next time he goes to the mines. I remember my parents having that conversation, so I keep it to myself.

"Peeta, did you ever think you would have to work in the mines?" I ask when his back seems sufficiently sticky. The question might seem out of nowhere to him, but he doesn't miss a beat.

"I certainly never wanted to. But when I was little, and a loaf of bread fell when I was baking it or I smudged the frosting, my mother would threaten to disinherit me from the bakery. She used it to keep all of us boys in line. There was always that threat that three brothers and their families couldn't run a single bakery." Peeta's voice is so thoughtful when he tells me this. The story is cold, chilling even, something about it seems so real I can almost smell the bread baking.

"Wash your hands," he says and the time for reflection is over. "They'll go numb."

He makes no attempt to get up, so I bring back a cloth to wash his hands off. He's adjusting his prosthetic when I return. He sometimes sleeps with it on. It was customized to be a perfect fit for him and thus, is rather difficult to take on and off and to position it so it won't squeak or rub or be too loose or too tight.

"Here," I offer because he seems to be having trouble. "I can get it. I've got smaller fingers." Even in the dark I can see that he's staring at me as I glide the artificial limb off.

"I forgot that you knew how do to that," he murmurs.

I nod quietly and let him consider a time when I knew at least some of his secrets. My fingers still trail near the pinkish stump where his leg should be. I want to tell him that I'm sorry, that—the tourniquet, the burns, the torture—none of that would have happened if it weren't for me. But the words would never begin to fill the cavern of pain I've caused him.

He slides under his blanket, holding a section up for guilt-ridden me. I'm about to get under the covers before I even think about what's happening. It's what he wants, but I freeze. "I," I falter and then don't know what comes next. I'm not sure about his offer.

If I could erase the last year, it might be the easiest thing in the world. In fact, just a few nights ago I was convinced it would be easy. I took him up to my room and he was defiant about sleeping in the chair. It took some coaxing, he tried it and woke up happy. He practically showed up at my house in pajamas the next night. Now, I'm the one with doubts.

"Just because I had a flashback doesn't mean I'll hurt you," he tries.

And I know that, but I scoot to the farthest part of the bed, hugging my knees to my chest, willing myself not to run away. Someone needs to watch him and I owe it to him.

"You don't trust me," his words cut through the dark room, stinging me. I could not feel more cruel, more selfish. Peeta wouldn't hurt me. I trust that. I should be fine with sharing space with him—it's how we spent the day, but something about crossing this line, sharing a bed makes me uneasy. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel, if it's okay to be comfortable, if I should want him to protect me from the nightmares again of if it's okay to want to touch that scar on his neck that seems so off limits. "I do," I hear myself whisper so quietly I almost hope it doesn't reach his ears.

He shifts towards me, throwing the edge of the blanket over my socks. "Can you help me remember to my pills at midnight? If I can finish that last batch, maybe we can have a good day tomorrow."

I reach down and smooth a stray piece of his hair. "That, I can do." He's giving me the option of leaving, just asking that I come back in a few hours. He deserves better, so I stretch out my legs in front of me, hinting that I will try to stay.

He's already lying beside me, but he stretches to get more comfortable and ends up cradling his face above my knee. "I like this." He's half-asleep, maybe more. I give him a tiny pat on the head.

"For so many months the only reason anyone touched me was to take blood or hook electrodes to me. Not you, though," he muses. "You make me feel like less of a science experiment," he exhales. "You make me feel..."

Images of sterile hospital rooms and stern doctors flash through my mind.

"Better."

I slip down next to him. His arms wrap around me and my mind wanders through our day as I listen to him breathe. The day started out with thoughts of him not being in my bed and somehow I ended up in his.

* * *

**A/N****: So SC never really went in to the specifics of Peeta's flashbacks other than years later he has to grip the chair when he has them. So I thought it might be almost like having a seizure, and would really drain a person and just leave them feeling sick for at least a few hours, and maybe have some other side effects. For the sake of my story, it's not something he gets over in five minutes and he does need someone to help take care of him. So maybe it's a little AU, but that's my logic.**

**And chapter 11 might be a little while. It's a bigger mess than my usual drafts, and I'm super busy next week. But happier chapters are coming and I will try my best to finish them as soon as possible.**


	11. Chapter 11: Waking Up

**Chapter 11: Waking Up**

* * *

The sunlight is so painfully bright, my eyes snap back shut. Why are my blinds open? I try to keep my room practically blacked out. A few more reluctant blinks and the furniture coming into focus doesn't look familiar. I jolt when I realize this isn't my bedroom.

"Real or not real?" a deep voice asks me his customary question. I stop reaching for the hunting knife that's not on my belt when I remember where I am.

"Huh?" I scrunch one eye open the tiniest bit as my body adjusts from sleep. I didn't hear the first part of his question.

"You. Are you real?"

I stretch and roll over so I can look at him and raise an eyebrow. Peeta's sitting with the back against the headboard, beaming. "You feel real," he says as finger pokes into the soft flesh of my side.

In return, I pinch him. Hard.

"Ow, ow, ow. Definitely real." He squirms putting his hands in front of him defensively, laughing the whole time.

He looks so different from yesterday. His eyes seem more alive, his smile less contrived, his shoulders less tense. He's got the sheet covering his lap and most of the blanket seems to be cocooned around me. I work on kicking my legs free of the fabric.

"You stayed," he says warmly.

"Haymitch was busy," I deadpan.

This reminds me it's past time to scurry home and head off to a long day in the woods. But Peeta, who is usually such an early riser, doesn't seem to be making any sort of effort get up to nudge me out of the bed, which is almost surprising. He's devoted to helping me with my mornings. Some days simply getting out of the bed is the hardest part. With that done the rest of the day fades by as I complete my routine: hunting, dinner, evening on the couch, bed. I haven't spent the whole day in bed in a while. From the window light it looks like too pretty of a day to waste inside, but I consider it for a few seconds—staying here, where no one will look for me. I wouldn't have to face anyone except Peeta, who has become part of my routine.

"So I got you instead?" Peeta sounds playful.

I ignore his question and look for the sock that's no longer covering my left foot. My bruised toe is still concealed under stitched-up navy cotton, but my other sock isn't visible on the bed or under the blanket.

Really, it's probably too warm to be wearing socks to bed, but I didn't give much thought to my sleep clothes last night as I'm still wearing the pocketed pants and long sleeve shirt I went hunting in yesterday. My hunting knives are in Peeta's living room and the rest of my pocket contents on his nightstand.

Peeta joins in patting down the bed and eventually dangles a purple sock in front of me. I yank it away.

He continues searching. I send him an inquisitive glance.

"Would you know what happened to my shirt?" he scrunches his face.

Then I remember why I feel so tired. Peeta's pain medication wore off before his midnight dose, leaving him miserable until the new pills started working. The storm started loudly back up an hour later and Peeta woke up from a nightmare, sweating and spouting nonsense. It took me half an hour to assure him that he was at home and not in the arena or Capitol. He was sweating, so we threw off his blanket, took off his shirt and put a cold compress on his head.

I scour the tangled sheets. I spy the soggy compress on the floor and finally sight an arm of Peeta's elusive shirt peeking out from under my pillow. I tug it out as Peeta turns to look around the foot of the bed.

"Here," I nudge it toward him; tap him with the fabric.

In the light, I catch sight of his scarred back. I forget everything else and just look at him.

A year ago, his back had looked so different: light skin with a handful of chestnut colored freckles dotted across his shoulder blades. Grafts have replaced some of the freckles, but as I scoot closer some of them I can still make faintly out.

I have the sudden urge to trace the patch outlines with my finger to see if it feels hot or cold or even like mine. I drop the shirt, inch my fingers closer. I don't ask for permission as I graze a square of pink on the lower part of his back. His skin is cool and jumps at my touch.

At first it's one scar, then the next. I trace the pinkish-white lines slowly, working my way upward as I lounge in the bed, trying not to have to sit up. Instead of a blank canvas, his back has become a roadmap of his journeys to and from the Capitol.

I don't know if seconds or minutes pass as I occupy my hands and it doesn't matter. I examine each burn, graft and freckle willing them to tell me what happened to him and how he was so close that he too got burned that fateful day.

This is nothing like yesterday, when I was hurrying to medicate his back before one or both of us had an episode. That was a chore. I was trying so hard not to hurt him. Today, I take my time to learn the small square of spared skin on his side, the graft that's shaped almost like a heart on his shoulder blade. My fingertips tingle as they brush his soft and faintly sticky skin.

He eases himself down on to the bed and turns to face me. Pointedly avoiding whatever expression he's wearing, I keep my gaze on his chest—a jumble of whites, pinks, reds mixed in with the milky skin I remember. He didn't tell me to stop. If anything he moved into me. My hand hovers over him as if automatically drawn there. It drops to the spot just left of center, where as children we'd pledge to the Panem flag every morning in school. It pulses under me, beckoning me back to sleep. Peeta lies so still he must be sleeping or close to it.

Tentatively my fingers meet the contours of his torso, trailing the intersections of plump scars, where old damaged skin meets the shiny new lab-created skin

Gently, I make my way over the crisscrossing patches, lingering over the spots licked by flame, replaced by science. I knew this boy once. I could tell you about the oven burns on his forearms and the single freckle he has on the hand he draws with. Is it possible that I don't know this boy at all?

I thought his eyes were blue, but with his lids closed, I wonder if that's still true. I feel the uneven skin on his neck. He opens his eyes, and they're still the same kind blue they've always been.

Somehow, as I'vestudied him I've moved closer. Only now do I realize that our faces are really too close together. I should back up, move away, anything but stay where I am, but I can't seem to break away

And for a fleeting second all I can think of is kissing him: in the cave, on the beach, underground. In the soft glow of morning, his lips seem so inviting. Would they still be soft? Would they be the same? Would it feel like the last desperate time? Or would I feel anything at all?

The sensation startles me at first because it's been so long since I've felt anything like that. I'm also curious. I would be breaking my rule, but what harm could it do? I remind myself that it would change everything.

"What are you thinking?" Peeta asks when I've been staring at him for several seconds. He knows me too well.

About lines I don't want to cross—that's what I don't say. "Slugs," I say. "There was one on my doorstep yesterday. I wondered if it would be there today."

He gives me a knowing look and picks my braid up off my shoulder. "There was something intense in your eyes. I would have guessed….hunting."

I see it now, the way he looks left when he's lying. I've never noticed it before. "What are you thinking of?"

"You." He looks straight at me, not up, down or left. Something in my stomach sinks.

Peeta is back to the kind of babble that would make the giggly girls from school swoon. I try not to call him a slug, but do take the opportunity to scoot away and put a safe distance between our mouths.

"What I would do without you?" he continues. He says it so sincerely, like he really thinks I'm anything but a burden.

That moment for crossing lines has past. I'm angry now. Without me he'd be living somewhere other than alone in godforsaken District 12. He'd be a hero and could have any girl he wanted.

"Be better off," I mumble under my breath.

"You take care of me when I'm sick, keep me company when no one else will, listen to my stories about dough rising. No, Katniss. It's not true."

It makes me feel horrible. He deserves more than someone who stays out of obligation, someone who goes through the motions of listening, someone who has caused him 100 lifetimes of pain.

"I think I need to go," I pull away, wondering exactly how fast I can round up my belongings strewn around his house.

"I'll make breakfast," Peeta tempts me.

"It's getting late." I dash for the door like a pack of growling wild dogs are about to burst the closet doors open.

"Katniss," he calls after me. "Wait."

"I'll see you later," I give a quick look behind me, give a fake smile and try to decide whether it would be best to go straight to the woods to quickly change into clothes that don't smell like mint numbing lotion and cream cheese.

I hear a squeak in the floorboard that makes me pause midstep in the doorway. It couldn't be what it sounded like and I twist my head precisely in time to see an off-balance nosedive to the carpet below. There goes my quick exit.

I bite my bottom lip and hold my breath until he starts to laugh. Then I know it's okay to finally let out the sound that's so painfully been held in.

"I think you forgot something," I kneel next to the boy now sprawled on the floor.

"No, this is what I was going for," he retorts. "It's part of my stretching routine, helps get the blood flowing."

I consider hitting him over the head with the prosthetic, but hand it to him instead.

"You'd think I'd get used to this," he shakes his head and takes a more serious tone. "I went to take that second step—and didn't quite meet the ground like I was supposed to."

It's the kind of thing I'm not sure anyone could ever get used to. I give his leg a reaffirming pat. "Let's get you set up."

* * *

Buttercup weaves figure eights through my legs as I head from my head from my silent and empty house toward my woodland haunt.

The fleabag chose to ignore me this morning until I got a bath towel out to dry my detangled hair and now I can't seem shake him off. I'm hoping he finds some varmint to distract him from his underfoot antics before too long.

As we reach the entrance to Victor's Village Buttercup leaps up on the stone planter that separates the oversized houses from the rest of District 12.

"I thought you'd be baking," I say to the figured seated on the low grey wall.

"I like the morning light," he says not looking up from his sketchpad while lowering a hand to pet the mangy beast between what's left of his ears. The yellow cat curls against his side, flexing into Peeta from the tips of his whiskers to the ragged end of his tail. Peeta drops the pad to stroke the cat. Buttercup promptly claims the paper with a satisfied flop.

"No," I scold.

The tomcat gives me a gloating blink and starts to knead his claws into the paper.

"Shoo," I yell.

He walks up to Peeta for a reprieve. I pick the filthy thing up by the scruff of his neck and move him away.

"I don't mind," Peeta assures me.

"I do." I huff down beside him and pick up the partially shredded pad. "Look at what that destructive thing did."

"I thought it needed some texture," he grins after I hand it back.

Buttercup sashays a few feet away and stretches out for his daily sunbath.

Peeta twirls the pencil between his fingers before going back to work. He's drawn an outline of town—the way it used to look, with the towering Justice Building and the shops still standing. He's facing what's left of the burned out shells.

Victor's Village was built to be seen. It's visible from the train station, the main thoroughfare and most of the town. Conversely, it's an excellent vantage point. From our spot, we can see the crews preparing the town for demolition and various townspeople bustling through their morning routines.

"I was trying to remember what is was," Peeta points at his drawing. "Remember what it is today and think about what it will be one day."

I lean in as he explains it to me. He shows me the apothecary, the shoe shop, the butcher. I remind him of the colorful awning on the sweet shop and we laugh at the lady who owned the dress shop and insisted on shop window curtains that never would stay white. I'm acutely aware of the proximity of our heads again. I have to stop doing this.

I tuck my head on his shoulder. That seems like the safest place to still have a good view.

He shades a few more buildings, and then rests his head on top of mine. It's comfortable and I allow it.

The sun warms my back. Just being outdoors makes me feel more normal. Alive.

I'm already running so late that a few more minutes won't matter. It's best to start hunting while it's cool and the ground is still dewy. Those predawn hours are long gone and the trap lines will have to wait. I get so few of these lucid quiet moments, uninterrupted by anxiety or worry.

Sae wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't bring her anything. I have zero obligations to provide food for anyone. I could have a good day without searching for chicory or aiming the first arrow.

"Maybe I could take you out there tomorrow," I say looking in the direction of the woods. "There's a patch of rosemary I can show you."

"I'd like that." His voice is tinged with warm reverie.

I listen to the cacophony of birds cheerfully calling and it almost feels easy to forget about the bad days.

Peeta moves his head off of mine and I hear the quiet rustling of him kissing the top of my head. I silently permit it this once. Something about this postcard perfect day makes it okay.

But instead of keeping my head nestled in his shoulder, my body does a funny thing and my head turns to face him.

He releases the pencil. It rolls, then falls down into the planter.

Blue eyes. Blonde lashes. That's all I see. Not even a foot away.

I brace myself to not react, to stay calm. I see it coming with more than enough time to duck. Something about seeing him so broken only a day before tells me to tolerate it, to give him some semblance of a pleasant memory. I'm not sure what I expect, but when his lips meet my forehead it's sweet and kind, warm and soft and perfectly Peeta.

My hand clutches at his shirt. I think I know what comes next and I hold my breath.

"Ahem," a man clears his throat loudly and suddenly we're not alone anymore.

_Please be Haymitch,_ I grit my teeth and hope for our foul-smelling, semi-nocturnal mentor. He's perfectly used to seeing us together. Today, I'd even take a barb about Peeta's schmaltzy methods for memory recovery. Since I didn't hear his stagger and I don't smell liquor, I know my prospects are dismal.

Thom is standing awkwardly over us.

I want to fall back into the flower planter to avoid this whole scene. How did we not hear him come up? Peeta tugs his hand away from my cheek and I pull my knees up to hide behind them. I wish Cinna had designed me an invisibility costume. That would come in handy.

"Peeta," he shifts his weight to the other foot. "I was just coming to see you."

Thom wrings a long cloth handkerchief out between his hands. It's obvious he's already been working this morning. His hat and gloved hands are covered in dust. I've made such a point not to be seen with Peeta that this is truly excruciating. I busy myself by pulling a stray weed in the flowerbed.

"I was hoping I could get a cake to surprise my wife for our anniversary, but you look…busy, so I'll come back."

Peeta opens his mouth, looks at me, looks at the ash-covered man. Thom doesn't wait around for an answer, but swiftly walks back toward town with his head down.

"Peeta," I hiss, secretly wanting to hit him with his sketch pad. "The next time you decide do that, can it not be at the entrance of Victor's Village where the whole town can see?"

As I hurry away I realize what I've just said. I can't put the distance between us fast enough. Obviously I'm not in a rational mood.

* * *

**_As always, thanks for the reviews. _**


	12. Chapter 12: Try It Again

**Chapter 12: Try It Again**

Peeta stabs a mushroom out of a bowl of freshly gathered greens. I keep my head down and skewer a crouton to finish off the salad kebob I've made on my fork.

The sounds of crunching and forks clinking fill the room as I wait for him to tell me about the filling he put in that anniversary cake and he waits for me to tell him about the quail I saw in my short excursion into the woods today. We listen to each other chew until the front door is hurled loudly open.

"It's not Tuesday," I grumble without needing to look up. There's only one person that attacks my door with all the finesse of a fervently breaking freight train.

"How do you do, Miss Everdeen? Haymitch says with mock courtesy. "How are you this fine evening?"

I suddenly wish I had a bucket of ice water.

Despite his warm welcome, Haymitch pulls up a chair at the head of the table, and with a smug look watches Peeta and I pick silently at our dinners.

"I haven't seen you two in a few days and thought I'd make sure you hadn't killed each other," he offers when no one else starts. "Any bodies I need to take care of?" He looks directly at me when he says this.

I'm not sure if it's a joke, really.

"You two behaving yourselves?" he continues. "Anything I need to know about?"

"We're just peachy," I mumble, wondering when this interrogation will end.

"Too peachy, I hear," he mutters under his breath.

Peeta pushes a basket of bread toward our uncharacteristically concerned mentor and asks about his day. When it's clear that Haymitch came over for a meal, Peeta passes him a serving bowl full of salad. No stew tonight. With me outside in the heat and Peeta in the kitchen baking, we decided on a cold dinner. Sae was happy for the night off.

Haymitch looks at the salad like it's Sae's mystery meat surprise and he's just figured out that the mystery meat is an old shoe. "Rabbit food?" Partially chewed breadcrumbs fall out of his gaping mouth. It's not what he was expecting. He stares at me like I can magically produce Southern Fried Squirrel. When I don't respond, he snatches up another piece of bread, casting a dirty look in Peeta's direction.

Peeta pushes a piece of chard around his plate, alternating glances between Haymitch and me. It seems like there's something he wants to say, but because of either Haymitch or me, he's not saying it.

Haymitch picks all of the onions out of salad to eat with his bread. I smirk at Peeta. He grins back. Haymitch clears his throat and my scowl comes back.

"It's nice to see you tonight," Peeta tells our mentor. "I'm sorry there isn't any stew for you. What can we have ready for you next time? Katniss what did you get in the woods today?"

"I didn't find any liquor trees if that's what you're asking." That's all I offer and rather than get sucked into another round of Delightful Dinner Conversation with Haymitch, I put my bowl in the sink and make my way to the couch. Last time the conversation centered around the lack of available spirits, with Peeta arguing the cons for Haymitch making his own moonshine still. That's an explosion waiting to happen.

"You let me know, sweetheart." It almost sounds like Haymitch is suppressing a laugh.

Peeta asks Haymitch about the news and rebuilding in other districts. Haymitch grunts through one word responses. "You don't have to play host. I can take my foliage to go," he finally says. "Go on. She's waiting on you," Haymitch urges Peeta barely loud enough for me to discern

Unfortunately, my absence makes it easier for them to talk about me. And Haymitch advising Peeta about me incenses me—mostly because he's right. That's exactly what I'm doing, waiting on Peeta to come sit next to me, flip on the news and resume the quiet little routine that we built. I would prefer Haymitch to be back in his filthy house adding to his pile of dirty dishes, not doling out what I can only assume is relationship advice.

"She's tired," Peeta replies.

"Tired of waiting on you. Go on over there. Don't mind me." I'm not sure, but it sounds like he adds, "you never have."

Haymitch's chair creaks as he replaces it under the table. "I'll leave you two alone." I peek over the crouch to see him take the last of the bread. "Since when have you two ever minded a crowd?" he shakes his head at no one in particular.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he calls from the door.

With that, we're alone again.

"Maybe we shouldn't do anything he would do," Peeta laughs as he cleans up the dinner dishes. That's definitely something Haymitch wouldn't do.

When the soapy sink is drained Peeta looks down at me with a crooked cheek-over-exerting smirk. It's quiet again. And maybe it's what Haymitch insinuated when he said he'd leave us alone, but all I can think of is being tangled up with Peeta again. Stupid Haymitch.

"Can I sit here?" Peeta motions to the cushion my feet are propped on.

"No," I practically yawn.

He arches an eyebrow and I let him think I'm being cruel a second before I sit up and offer him the spot where my head was. As soon as he sits, I resume my position. He sighs and reclines his head back on the cushion. I hope he doesn't have big plans on discussing that cake he was so excited about making, because I have big plans for napping.

"Were you really waiting on me?" he asks like he already knows the answer.

"No."

"Didn't seem like it anyway," he runs a hand over the space between my shoulder blades.

My breathing deepens as the quiet minutes pass. I'm a few heartbeats away from sleep.

"I think this is so cute," he muses to himself. "How you fall asleep like this. You'd think you don't sleep at night."

I let him think I'm sleeping. My guard is completely down. It's been coming down more and more around him. It's strange how this happened, and perfectly expected at the same time: how I trust him again, fall asleep with him around. Gradually, the accusatory looks have been replaced by sly smiles. We're not the same as we were a year ago, or even when he first came back. We're not the Capitol-created lovers our survival once mandated. He can't love me anymore and that's strangely freeing. I don't have his lofty expectations to live up to. I don't have to play at feelings I'm not ready to have. So I can just lay here and enjoy a warm hand on my lower back.

"Peeta," I give away that I'm partially awake while he trails a finger around the curve if my ear. I try to hide the chills that have extended down my arms.

"Hi," he feigns straightening a strand of hair that's fallen out of my braid. "I wanted to make sure I thanked you for taking care of me last night." He pets my back. "It was so kind of you."

"Um hmm," I mumble like it was no big deal to stay with him, to see him that broken. As much as I try to brush what he's saying off, I can't. There's something I need to know. "Peeta," I turn over so I can see his expression. "Are your flashbacks always that bad?" I have a million more questions. How often do they come? What am I supposed to do? What does he normally do?

"No." I try to look him in the eye when he says this but from this angle, it's more like looking him in the nostril. "That was definitely the worst one since I came back. The storms seem to set them off. But you were perfect."

I ignore the compliment. I've been around healers enough to know that breaking down into sobbing fits isn't proper protocol. "What did you do last time?" I steer the conversation back to him. It's not the first time we've had a storm.

Peeta's cheeks round up like he does when he's going to laugh. "I took a bunch of sleeping medicine and slept on the couch until the storm passed."

That sounds a little too much like Haymitch for my liking. I'd rather not have that happen again, not while I'm around. I'm the reason he has these episodes, so it makes sense that I take care of him. "Will you be okay tonight?" I place the query purposefully between the other questions, with just enough weight to sound casual.

"I'm sure I will be," he says, trying to look confident.

"Oh." That wasn't the answer I was searching for. But it's what I should have expected.

"Are you sure?" I try again.

"The same as any other night."

"Because if you need to," I trail off. Do I finish the thought? Leave it open?

The steady click of the ceiling fan is the only sound as I mull it over. Peeta doesn't break the silence like I want him to.

"Stay." That imperative is my whole speech as I brush his hand, not sure if I should grasp it tight or leave it alone. One word. It's all that needs to be said. It means stay with me. Five minutes. Five hours. All night. Let me keep an eye on you in case you're sick again tonight.

He entwines his fingers with mine. "Okay," he whispers.

"Peeta," I shove at him. "Wake up."

"Umph," he grunts, obviously sleeping soundly.

His arm weighs heavily on my rib cage and his head is on my shoulder. I'm partially pinned by his weight and the mass of throw pillows and blankets that ended up on the living room floor. I wiggle my way out. "I'm going out," I tell him. "I'll come get you at lunch time, okay?"

He rolls over. "Morning." He doesn't even bother to blink his shut eyes. He's usually an early riser but I can't blame him for wanting a few more minutes of sleep. I didn't really want to get up myself.

The floor isn't really my first choice for sleeping arrangements, but last night I was too tired to do more than scoot the coffee table out of the way and yank a nearby pillow on the floor. Peeta followed suit and we ended up camped on the floor. There were no mutts or explosions. No one woke at midnight screaming. We slept and today I'm rested. And after two abbreviated days hunting, I have some catching up to do.

As I'm tugging on my boots, I remember to leave Peeta a note telling him where I've gone. I can't find a scrap of paper. I have a black marker, but nothing to write with. Peeta's splayed across a few pillows with one arm tossed out wide. "Meet me for lunch?" I write in true District 13 style. He won't be able to miss that.

The sun warms my nose and shoulders as I lead a boy in a backpack around the briars and brambles of the woods. Dressed in long sleeves and many pocketed pants, he beams the whole was to the spot where I've seen some wild dill grows. He gathers while I scout out some basil that I'm not sure I've seen recently.

"Lunch?" He rests a hand on my arm, distracting me from my search for fragrant leaves.

I'd forgotten. I dropped my morning game off with Sae when I went to meet him so I guess we'll have to find something.

Peeta opens his backpack and pulls out two sandwiches. A picnic. Of course.

The sandwich I should have expected, but the crumbly white cake is a complete surprise.

"What's the occasion?" I ask while taking a bite. I'm sure it must be leftover from yesterday.

"No reason. I thought you'd like the frosting."

I stick a finger in the sticky topping. Cream cheese. Apparently, I'm just as predictable as he is.

Eating cake in the woods. It's not something I'd ever pictured myself doing. But it's pleasant enough that for a few minutes I let myself forget what got us here. Peeta leans back next to me, staring at the clouds. "I can see why you like it out here so much."

It's a different sort of quiet than the Village. The insects hum, the birds' call, chipmunks dart into the bushes. Dr. Aurelius calls it nature therapy. It's the one area I know I'm making progress in.

I watch Peeta as he lounges on a blanket of plush green grass. He looks so content, relaxed. A light breeze blows the hair off the pink waves of burns on his forehead.

Kneeling, I lean in and trace the swirls with the tips on my fingers. I touch where his eyebrows are growing back in. His eyes are closed and a sleepy half smile curls on his lips. He snaps his eyes open and I freeze.

"I—," I start to explain, suddenly terrified that I did something wrong. _You looked so peaceful,_ I want to tell him.

"It's okay," he shushes me, placing one hand on the side of my cheek, pulling me closer. His hand trembles as he traces my jaw. I could back up, move my head farther away from his but I don't. The pads of his fingers graze my lips.

_Is it okay?_ I plead with my eyes. Am I terrified or is it something else entirely? Why am I still leaning into him? He drags his fingers away from my lips. It's as if I can feel it in my toes. Before I have a second to object, his mouth is on my mine. It's both soft and urgent at the same time. The pressure builds in my chest and worry that I can't breathe. I'm dizzy and wonder if the woods are spinning or if my concussion is to blame. I peak one eye open and the trees around us seem stationary enough. It must be a dream then, one that tastes like cream cheese cake frosting.

He pulls away. Not ready for this part of the dream to end, I tug his lips back toward me for a few more seconds of not feeling numb.

"Real or not real?" he asks when we collapse back on the grass.

"I'm not sure," I sigh, running my tongue over what's left of the sugar on my lips. Dreams don't usually have a taste, but what would I know about normal dreams anyway?

His kisses find me again—tiny tickles on my scarred hands, the inside of my elbow, my shoulder, my neck, my ear. With closed eyes I allow it and think back on some of the other times, but I keep coming back to how much I wanted him to return to me so many months ago. "I missed you." It's more of a squeak than a confession. It's the first time I've said it, and when I say it I know that I've missed him more than those few months last year. He sighs something into my ear that's more breath than words and squeezes my hand.

What was supposed to be a lunchtime outing for gathering herbs for Peeta's baking has turned into an afternoon I hadn't expected. Of course, Peeta always will be more than a friend.

"I wondered about this," Peeta reflects. He's lying on his back, his lashes blinking up at the robin's egg blue sky.

"Really?" I lean up on my side to get a better look at him.

"The way you kissed me on the mission," he begins, and shifts so he's looking at me. "I had to try it again."

"That was so long ago," I say without thinking. I shouldn't be puzzled, though. He waited 11 years to talk to me. But that was the old Peeta, who despite everything I've been seeing more of as time goes on.

"I didn't want to lose you again." He tucks a stray hair behind my ear.

It's something I'm all too familiar with and there's nothing I can say to match that. So I don't say anything, and do my best to prevent any more heartfelt declarations. My lips remember his, their softness, his habits, the way he lingers on my lower lip.

Peea scoots back from me shaking.

Not this. A cold chill runs through me. An audible "no" falls out of my open mouth. Can Peeta have a moment's peace?

He holds his arm out in front of him telling me to keep my distance. "Give me a second," he says through gritted teeth. "I think it will pass. It's just a lot of memories coming back."

Peeta sits on the grass, his eyes tightly shut in an expression of pain and intense concentration.

I trust his judgment and keep my distance. I wander a few feet away and resume my gathering quest from earlier. While I don't find any basil, I do happen upon a fragrant patch of yellow and white flowers. These tiny blooms weren't in either arena and don't grow in the concrete-filled Capitol so probably don't have anything to do with tainted memories. I quietly walk up to Peeta and offer him a handful. He's still shaking slightly, but not clenched like he's having an actual flashback.

"You okay?" I ask cautiously.

His nod isn't entirely convincing.

"I brought you something." I don't know if he needs a distraction or not, but since he doesn't shoo me away, it's worth a try. I pinch the end off one of the tiny trumpets for him. "Here."

Peeta hesitantly takes the small yellow flower. I don't think the vines grew in town, because he doesn't know quite what to do with the flower. I remember eating one whole when I was little before I knew what I was supposed to do.

"Honeysuckle," I say. He laughs when I show him what to do with it. We split the handful of sweet nectar-filled flowers I've picked. Before long Peeta looks more relaxed, cheerful even.

"Katniss, you constantly surprise me," he says.

"Sometimes I like surprises," I muse, planting my head on his shoulder.

And in a grassy clearing in the woods, I realize that I'm not falling for him again. I fell a long time ago, and am just now pulling myself back up from the hole I've been in without him.

We bask in the sun not really saying anything in particular. The sun is lower in the sky than when we left, but I make no effort to get up or leave. There's nowhere else I'd rather be.

Peeta finds a dandelion and takes his time blowing the tiny white parachutes all around us. The fuzzy seeds adorn my braid and I just laugh.

Eventually it's time to leave and Peeta takes my hand and helps me up. I lead us out of our grassy haven and into town.

The streets seem busier than before, barely though, as people return to the town. Peeta nods at passersby and I wish the sweet shop were already rebuilt so I could pick up a piece of chocolate or a strawberry flavored candy.

Between the sunshine, the daydreams of candy and the familiar hand that holds mine I feel so very far from the starving girl held in confinement in the training room.

Peeta stops at his parents' bakery and lays down some flowers he picked on our way back. I let him kneel there for as long as it takes. I put my hand on his shoulder. "We'll rebuild," he says.

I give Peeta the tiniest kiss on the check. And because I'm thinking of his family and his bakery I don't see it first.

End part one.


	13. Chapter 13: Paparazzi

**Part Two.**

**Chapter 13: Paparazzi**

**A/N: So Ffn is acting up again. This story wasn't showing up on the Hunger Games page most of the day after I posted it and I'm not sure if the story alerts went out right. Notifications are messed up too. Sorry if you didn't get your alert.**

* * *

I'm staring straight down the black barrel of a camera lens. It's aimed directly at me and there's no question that they got the shot. I stiffen. One hand is on the knife on my pocket, but no good will come of that. Instinct takes over. Flee.

"Katniss! Peeta!" the neon clad trio cries. "Just a minute of your time!"

They've already had too much of my time. No more. What they're doing in bombed out District 12, I don't know, but I'm not sticking around to find out.

Peeta holds up his hand to block the shot. "Not now. Please leave us alone."

Even though his words are dismissive, it's still a betrayal. By acknowledging them, giving them something more to record he's walking straight into their snare. And as he deflects the shot, his fingers momentarily loosen their grip on mine and I take off. Behind me I hear them shout:"How are things now that you're back in District 12? Is the wedding still on? Have you found happiness now that the war is over?"

"We're recovering, the same as the rest of the country," Peeta finally says. "Now really, if you have more questions you'll need to set up an appointment."

_Appointment? _I run farther away from his voice. There will be no appointments. They need to leave. There will be no interviews, no appearances—even if that means being holed up in my house for as long as it takes.

I duck into alleys and weave through the wrecked maze of the town. Only they know where I live and will probably be set up outside of my house. I'm out of breath and sobbing when I make it to the loop behind Victor's Village. I climb in the basement window in the back of my house to hopefully escape the lenses. I make it as far as a storage closet under the stairs before I fall into a heap. I thought I'd left this behind. Why can't my life be private? Why does the whole country need to know that I'm a shell-shocked lunatic or even when I get the tiniest bit of happiness?

Upstairs the phone rings and rings. The jarring siren reminds me that this isn't some REM-induced nightmare.

The crew could be camped out for weeks like what happened with our return two years ago. I won't be able to leave the house without being asked to announce baby names. They'll want exclusives—each more uncomfortable than the last. I'd hope now that the war is over there would be something more compelling than teenagers fresh out of the mental hospital.

The cement floor is cold beneath me as I hug my knees to my chest. Outside I'm being hunted again and I know that Peeta is going to lead them straight to me. The floorboards squeak upstairs and I fear the worst.

Footsteps creep down the stairs. One set of them. Breathe. Maybe he won't find me. I conceal myself in the shadows only to get sticky spider webs stuck in my hair. The footsteps get closer. He's going to find me.

"What the hell did you do?" That's what's screamed at me when the closet door opens. Only it's not Peeta. It's not a camera crew. It's Haymitch and he looks horrible, black half circles under his eyes and clothes so rumpled he's probably slept in them for a week. And even in my spot between the shelves at the end of the closet, I can tell that he smells significantly worse than the usual. Yet, he's the one person I'm almost glad to see. "Here I am trying to get an honest day's sleep a bunch of froo-froo haired nutjobs from the Capitol bang down my door, asking about you. About Peeta. About both of you."

There's no way he thinks I'm not here. I blink it at him.

"And don't tell me nothing. If it was nothing you wouldn't playing hide and seek with the spiders like you are now."

"They saw us," I confess. "We were in town and they saw us."

"Hell," Haymitch spits. "It was only a matter of time the way you two frolic around town."

I thought I'd been so careful. Until today. Until a lapse in my judgment. Stupid affection. Always makes an idiot out of me.

Haymitch doesn't point out the dozen or so warnings he gave us. He doesn't need to. Even Thom didn't deter us. This is all my fault. Haymitch was right. Even I was right. Kisses cause me nothing but trouble.

"What do I do?" I whisper.

Haymitch grunts. "I'll deal with it. Have fun with the spiders." He replaces the closet door. "You got any booze," he tags on when I thought he'd left me alone. "Never mind, I'll find it." His eyes skim over the small closet used as a pantry for canned goods. What few containers left are covered by a layer of course dust. He plunks a brown and corked bottle out from behind a row of stewed tomatoes in clear glass jars. It looks like the whiskey my mother used for patients when all of the other painkillers ran out. It sure could have come in handy if it hadn't have been forgotten about. "This should do the trick," he winks at me.

I want to argue that it's probably not the best time for a drink. But, maybe it helps him think or maybe he's using his surefire hangover remedy—never letting the alcohol get out of his system.

Drunk or not, he should be able to get me out of this mess. It is his area of expertise. It's also probably a good thing I haven't dumped ice water on him in awhile.

My plan is to stay here until he comes to give me the all clear. The floorboards upstairs squeak. It's reassuring to not be left completely alone, to hear him up there talking, yelling at the cat. A few phone calls from Haymitch should take care of it. Then there's silence for a long while. The squeaks start up again after a while and I'm hoping for good news. The door to my closet opens.

"Is it done? Are they gone?" I ask.

Only it's Peeta, the traitor, the golden-tongued boy. He knows how to work the cameras, loves it. He should have ignored them, but he didn't. And that's the problem. "Oh, it's you," I scowl.

"How are you doing?" he asks with entirely too much sensitivity. It makes me feel weak and I don't like it. I'm not weak. Or at least I shouldn't be.

"I'm in a closet with spider webs in my hair. How do you think I'm doing?"

Peeta comes and sits down next to me. That's the difference between him and Haymitch. Haymitch lives in filth but stays in the doorway. Peeta's house is pristine but he's not afraid of the cold grimy concrete floor of the unfinished basement. The space isn't really big enough for the two of us to sit with any real room between us. "They want to talk to you," he says quietly.

"I'm sure," I cross my hands in front of my chest. "Why did you talk to them?" My tone is accusatory.

"To make them go away," he says. "I thought you'd like that more than them hiding in the bushes in front of your house."

"They'd do that anyway." Doesn't he know he made the problem worse?

"Haymitch is talking to them now."

"He's a traitor too," I grumble under my breath without really meaning it. Haymitch is doing it because I asked him to. "You told the cameras to come. Is that why you had to talk to them?" I hiss. I can't make sense of this day. Why were they here? Why on today of all days? It had to be him. Who else has Capitol connections? It's all too big of a coincidence to ignore.

Even in the dark closet I can see the whites of his eyes get bigger. He pauses a second before responding. Longer than normal. He's being careful, like he has something to hide.

I should have known. I should have asked. Like everything else, this was setup. But Peeta? I wanted him to be an ally, so it hurts the worst. It's my fault. Why did I let my guard down? All of his kindness, I should have known it was too good to be true. He's changed. He's just pretending to be the boy who would warm up my cold feet or draw plants with me.

"Sweetheart, no," he soothes in that way only he knows how to do. "It's not like that at all. I had no idea about the cameras."

He lies so well. I can't believe him.

"This is why you came home, isn't it?" I make no attempt to hide the iciness in my voice. "Because we have to be 'us.'" Peeta yanks his arm off and tenses. "Don't deny it. You told me today. Are they paying you? Did they offer you lots of money to come home and babysit me? Sweep me off my feet? That's it, isn't it?"

Peeta counteracts all of my ire with a charismatic calm, there's no hint that frustration is seeping in.

"I came here because this is my home. I wanted my memories back. I wanted to walk through the streets of District 12 and remember that the air always tastes slightly chalky because of the coal dust. I wanted to remember the impromptu wrestling matches on the playground when I was in school. I wanted to see for myself what color the sky is when the run rises up from behind the mountaintops.

"Did I come back for you?" he continues. "I came back for home. Sure, I wanted to remember you, to know you better, to get back those memories. You had more answers than anyone. And after what I did, I had to try to make peace with you. I'd regret not trying."

He pauses there. The house seems so quiet. It's just the two of us. I stretch one of my legs out in front of me, abandoning the balled shape, I'd contorted myself into.

"You were a surprise," he tells me. His words remind me too much of the taste of honey flavored nectar. "For some reason, I expected the stone-faced girl who volunteered," he gulps omitting a word I can't bear to hear right now, "for the reaping. A girl who could send an arrow through a mutt just as easily as she could bandage a bloody wound. Fearless and kind. Thoughtful and bold. Sometimes," his fingers trail over my arm. "I see flashes of her." Does he know I feel the exact same way about him? "And sometimes you're so different from what I expected."

His hand cups my shoulder now. Warm and reassuring, it dissolves anger I didn't know I was holding in my arms. "I don't have to remember you as you were, I get new memories. And today? Of course I wanted to remember what it felt like to kiss you. Did I come back because we had to be star-crossed lovers? No. I knew better than to expect that televised romance, but…I'd be lying if I told you those few times you touched me on that mission meant nothing to me. It brought all these feelings back and it's part of why I came back. But even if you'd moved to the ocean with your mother, I think I would have at least tried to come back to my home."

He looks me in the eye intensely. "This." He motions like he's going to cup my face and I'm suddenly aware of the proximity of his mouth to mine—inches, not feet. "It's not a job. No one put me up to it. This was my own decision. It had nothing to do with Plutarch or cameras, okay?"

With each word, my anger melts a little, and that heavy weight in my ribcage lightens.

I've wasted hours being angry with him, when it's not him I should be mad at. He was there and that's why I blamed him. I had no right of accusing him of such horrible things.

"So, if I had never talked to you, what would you have done?" I ask him, wondering if he hadn't had the patience for me, if things had gone slightly differently, would he still be here.

"Maybe I would have stayed and overseen the rebuilding. Maybe I could have gone somewhere else. But nowhere else feels like home. And home was one of the things I wanted to remember most. I'd dream about home after the Quell. I'd tell myself just one more day before I can go home. I knew the district was demolished. But even _that_ _home_ is better than a 6x8 cell."

That heaviness overcomes my chest again. But this time it's because I'm weighed down with guilt.

"Why did you come home?" he asks sincerely.

"I didn't have a choice."

"But this is where you would have picked. Your woods, Katniss. You are District 12. You would have come home."

"This is my home," I admit quietly. If I had his choice, I'm sure it would have been the same. Why did I ever doubt him?

"You have every right to be upset," he tells me, sounding a bit too much like one of Dr. Aurelius' "Making Angry Productive" pamphlets. "I'd rather you not be upset with me, but I understand."

I don't truly want to be mad at him. But I don't want another setup. I don't want to play pawn in one of Plutarch's ratings games again. I can't handle it. I'm to the point where I don't know what's real, but here we are. There is one thing that I can do in this instance to be sure.

My hand goes first to his collarbone. Nothing. His lower back. He's not miked. And there's no way a camera would pick up anything in my pitch-black hidey-hole. It's silly really, but it puts me that much more at ease. "Okay," I relent. It's a whisper I'm not sure I want him to hear.

"Really?" he eyes me like he was preparing for more of a fight. I nod and stare back hoping to figure out if I actually have to apologize out loud. Then he does the last thing I'm expecting as we're nestled under swaths of abandoned cobwebs.

Against the cold gritty floor beneath me, his kiss is startlingly warm. His lips pull at mine like they've been away years not hours. I'm too surprised to do anything but accept it. It jars me out of the worrying, plotting and scheming—if only for a few moments. Clearly, he's not angry over my accusation.

"Mmmp," is all I can think to respond. Everything else can wait. My hand grasps at hisshirt where a lapel microphone might be demurely hidden in a buttonhole. But I have to trust him to know that he wouldn't do that.

A shuffling noise on the stairs lets me know our time is up. I try to straighten Peeta's disheveled hair before the door opens. He seems to be relishing every touch, unaware of our impending visitor. My hand is in his hair when a beam of light swings towards my eyes, spotlighting our proximity in this otherwise dark space. We're caught.

"You two," Haymitch harrumphs. "Always causing me problems."

"We were just…" and Peeta is apparently tongue-tied. Exhaustion is my theory.

"I know, I know," Haymitch sighs. "Practicing without an audience. Must be awful."

Peeta starts to protest then just stares the older man down.

"Well come on then." Haymitch motions for us to leave. "I'm not climbing in there with you."

* * *

Without the phone's constant ringing, the house seems eerily quiet as I ascend the stairs. I can hear Haymitch's labored breathing and the slightly unnatural thump of Peeta's prosthetic. As much as he's mastered it, it doesn't sound like a normal footfall. Upstairs the blinds are tightly drawn as Haymitch holds court at the kitchen table.

"You," he points at me. "When that phone rings, you're going to answer it."

"That's your brilliant plan?" I balk. "I could have done that hours ago."

Peeta quips about the simplest solutions and I decide they've both overstayed their welcome. They stay put though, Peeta stealing glance at me when he thinks Haymitch isn't looking and Haymitch pretending to read a glossy magazine but smirking at Peeta's stolen glances. And if it's possible, Haymitch actually smells worse than before. He looks a little more lucid, but he smells like he's been sick quite recently.

When the phone finally does ring, Peeta puts it in my hand. "Hello," I say as curtly as possible.

"Ahh, the lovely Miss Everdeen. How do you do?" Plutarch's voice comes through the phone. "I've heard you've had the most camera-worthy day. Now of course I wanted to stage something more elaborate and there's still time for that, but we must have a real interview right away. The crew is still at the station. Can you have them over?"

I resist the urge to angrily hang up the phone. There must have been something to Haymitch's plotting, and rather than risk even more cameras and reporters I stay on the line long enough for him to know I'm not playing this game again. I do, however, throw Haymitch a one fingered gesture of gratitude.

Haymitch gloats and retaliates by blowing me a sloppy, bile-scented kiss.

"Not today." I say. "I'm not feeling well," which is the truth.

"It must be going around," the former gamemaker sounds perplexed. "Your mentor gave us quite the show and told us you weren't available."

Plutarch spends a few more minutes pleading for something on camera. I stay silent, giving away nothing. "Let me know when you change your mind," he finally relents. "I hope to hear from you soon." With that I hear him tell his assistant he wants this to air tomorrow at the latest.

I replace the receiver and take a deep breath. Holding hands with a boy my age, a boy who used to be my fiancé—that is normal behavior and better press than shooting the president on national television. But, I'm sure Panem is sick of me, hates the murderous crazy girl I've become in the last two years.

Once Haymitch is satisfied with my telephone refusal he takes off and tells me not talk to reporters if I don't want to end up on the news.

"What exactly did Haymitch do?" I ask Peeta when I can't quite piece it together. It sounded like he made a few calls, left and came back. He arranged a pointless conversation for me, but that's all I know.

"What he's best at," Peeta smirks. "Drunken fool. I heard he even ruined the reporter's magenta suede shoes."

And then I get it: the alcohol, the stench. That would scare them off. "Really?" It does sound like him.

"The reporter with the microphone tried calling for a hovercraft to pick him up afterwards. I think the rest of the crew was ordered to stay until they got something usable. Maybe that's where Plutarch comes in."

The evening passes in a whirl. Peeta tucks me in and I practically beg him to stay. He shakes his head. "Do you really want them to see us together?" Peeta says. He has a point. "Let's not risk it."

"If you don't leave, how would they see us together?" I try.

"Katniss," Peeta shakes his head. And I know he can't stay holed up here until they leave. He has his pills, appointments, baking, so I listen to him walk away.

In my empty house, the nightmares are worse tonight. I dream I'm chased by giant insects with cameras for heads. A pack of them corners me. The microphones become snakes that grow and constrict around my body. I can't breathe.

I refuse to leave my house the next day—refuse to even look out the window for fear any lurking cameras might get a shot of me looking crazy. The large pile of laundry that's been put off for too long gets done. The phone rings nonstop, but it's pointless—I'm not answering it. But I do call my mother, who isn't available, and leave a vague message for her that something happened and she'll probably get to see me on TV tonight.

I braid and rebraid my hair to pass the time. Someone knocks on the door. The only people I want to see don't knock, they let themselves in.

Peeta comes over at dinnertime and finds me folding a pile of warm sheets. He doesn't talk about any of it, he just takes a corner and flips and smoothes until there's a pile of flat neat squares. The closer it gets to the time for the evening news, the more my mind races. I can't concentrate. I need to pace, write and clean all at the same time. Everything is jittery.

"You're fine," he says. "Just breathe." Even that seems hard and I hold my hands up to him. They're shaking. He holds them until it stops.

When Haymitch comes over we go to the living room. Peeta silently turns the television on. Haymitch just grunts: "Let's see how bad it is."

The evening newscast is uneventful: an outbreak of mutt moths in District 8, train delays in District 10, more housing relocations in the Capitol.

There are only a few minutes left of the broadcast and I wonder if maybe we're off the hook.

"And now for a real treat," the blonde anchor chirps. "It's been so long since we've heard about District 12 co-victors Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen, so we thought we'd check in with them and boy do we have something super special for you."

The screen switches to a reporter dressed in a blue jacket with magenta piping and a magenta handkerchief in his pocket. I bet he's the one who was wearing the pink shoes.

"Well hi there, Fabia. I'm coming to you live from District 12. Just yesterday our crew was sent out here to do a piece on the district rebuilding. We were getting a shot of the town center when we happened across two familiar faces."

The television cuts to a long shot of the town. In the distance Peeta and I walk hand in hand, gradually getting large on the screen. Peeta kneels to place the flowers by the rubble of his family's bakery and I kiss him on the cheek. If it had been scripted, it couldn't have summed up loss and rebuilding in the district more perfectly. The boys' eyes are glued to the screen so they don't notice me wiping my slightly watery eye. The scene plays out on the television and I duck under a pillow to avoid seeing what else they shot.

I hear Peeta say a few heartfelt words about his family's bakery and the tragic loss of life in the district last summer. He asks for privacy and the shot cuts back to the reporter.

"Now, we weren't able to get an interview with the couple," the reporter says. "Apparently, Miss Everdeen is a little under the weather, so we thought we'd check in with her doctor to see how she's been doing for the last few months."

"Hope this is ok, kid," Haymitch grunts. "I wasn't _pretty_ enough for the cameras and someone needed to say something." And I can't get that image out of my mind: Haymitch staggering up to the group, them wincing at his disheveled appearance, him falling over and proving obnoxiously how he isn't camera ready, taking out a pair of hideous shoes and making a valiant effort to run them out of town.

Dr. Aurelius comes on screen and this must be the other half of Haymitch's plot. The doctor sits at a massive polished cherry wood desk and wears a sterile white coat. "While I am not at liberty to discuss the details of Ms. Everdeen's treatment specifically," he says. "Suffice it to say that being at home, with friends has improved her health considerably. She is responding well to outpatient treatment. Much better than the care she received while in solitary confinement—which you will note I did argue against."

The screen splits and shows both the TV studio and the hospital and an office with walls are filled with thick diploma frames.

"And what about Peeta?" asks the anchor, a little too cheerfully.

"Mr. Mellark has shown marked improvement," the doctor states. "He has been released from my treatment and is at his home in District 12."

"Has he been a miracle worker in Katniss' recovery?" she fawns.

"I believe the two have been in contact. But beyond that I do not know what medical role he has provided," he says stoically.

"There you have it folks," she beams. "The star-crossed lovers from District 12, starting a new life together. Let's wish them the best."

The country's new seal flashes across the scene and the broadcast is over. It's so sweet I hope my dinner doesn't come up, but I'm grateful for the doctor's curt scientific answers.

"They didn't get it!" I exclaim happily, staring at Peeta. Since they got the shot in town, I'd assumed our afternoon in the woods was a foregone conclusion. This is the best news I've had all day.

"Get what?" Haymitch asks.

"Her matted hair," Peeta fibs. "She was worried her hair looked bad on camera."

Haymitch knows me better than that and he raises a skeptical eyebrow. "You mean you two sneaking around? I see him leaving your house in the morning. I'm probably not the only one. I can see it now 'Star-crossed Lovers Secret Rendezvous.'" With that Haymitch gets up to leave.

He's right. It would be salacious news for the country, good ratings for Plutarch and an invasion of the privacy we've never really had. "You are trouble, Peeta Mellark."

"Well, you," he leans as if he's going to whisper in my ear. But rather than the rushing sound of painfully sentimental words, he lingers on my ear lobe, an impossibly soft brush of a kiss. He trails down my neck, and my arm erupts into a mass of goose bumps. Then he really kisses me. Like yesterday, there's the taste of overdue urgency mixed with a hint of sadness, like each time might be his last, like I'll change my mind or something unspeakable will happen. I want to tell that there will be more time, but none of us can be certain.

The room is quiet and we lie together on the couch. I study the tiny dark flecks and dots in the blue of his eyes.

He sighs. "I want to remember every one. I remember what I've seen on tapes but I don't remember how they felt, whether my stomach was in knots, if they were warm or cold or if they tasted like lip balm or stew. What as our first kiss like?"

"Very hot," I tease. "You had a fever, were so sick and…" I shouldn't laugh but I do. "I didn't know what I was doing."

He thinks it over and smiles one of his broadest grins. It's easy to coax a smile out of him, but this particular one is reserved for special occasions. "That's a start. What about the next one?"

"There were a lot of next ones." He looks intrigued. I could recount a lot of them but I'm more interested in the memories he does have.

Peeta says he remembers bits and pieces. He remembers a kiss on the beach for the cameras because he remembers how the tiny seashells cut into his bare feet and he remembers a kiss in seven because I tasted like cider he has at his house. So, the memories—even the most convoluted ones of me—are gradually coming back**. "**Being around you helps," he grazes my cheek.

"Don't I bring back all those painful memories?"

"When you touched my hair that night in the underground control room I remembered how you used to do that. My interrogator didn't exactly caress me lovingly. Little things like that help me remember. Dr. Aurelius says it has to do with my tactile memories. So, Katniss you do help.

"And he also said that you should kiss me until I remember everything."

Yes, Peeta never misses and beat. And for that I aim one of the couch cushions squarely at his face.

The phone rings and I'm grateful for a break from this mushy subject.

"Yes, she's here," Peeta answers the phone. "She's presently throwing things at me. Can you make her stop? Ok. Good to talk to you too."

My mother's on the line and I'm glad to talk to her.

"Hi Katniss, how are you holding up?"

"Okay," I say because I am. I'll get through this. It might take some help from others but I'll prevail. There are worse things than camera crews.

"I saw you on TV tonight. Thanks for the heads up. You know the other doctors all adore you, want to know when they can meet you. We loved the TV spot."

"Okay," I repeat, suddenly feeling a tiny twinge in my chest because she's not here. She's not hovering over the stove, heating up a batch of chamomile tea. She's on the other side of the country watching her wayward daughter's life unfold on the screen yet again.

"You seem like you're doing better." Her voice is warm and full of enthusiasm.

"I'm trying." It doesn't come easy to me. It takes practice. And while I might look like my father, I'm my mother's daughter in this respect.

"Well, I want you to be happy. You did seem happy for an instant."

"Then the cameras showed up," I grumble.

"Katniss, it will be okay," she sighs into the phone. "So, Peeta's over again. Are you two doing ok?" she pries in a surprisingly motherly fashion.

"We're managing."

The sounds of the hospital pick up. Intercom announcements sound and heals clack down tiled corridors. "Ok. Let me know if you need anything. Love you." Her break is over and my mother clicks off.

I stand there, phone in hand until it starts beeping. Peeta, who I didn't realize was still at the house, replaces the receiver, hands me some pills and water.

"I'll see you in the morning, Katniss." He sits me down on the couch and puts a blanket over me. I grasp his arm, not wanting him to go. Those blue eyes of his bore into me, but I can't convince him and I spend the night on the same spot on the couch.

In the morning, Peeta brings a plate of breakfast over. He watches me eat and then hints that it might be a good idea to clean up and get changed. The shower helps and by the time I put on a pair of soft lounge pants I almost forget why I've been hiding out.

An enormous plastic-wrapped gift basket sits on the kitchen table. It's bigger than my mother's sewing basket and filled with tins of brightly colored candies, crackers, tiny bottles of soda, cheeses I've never heard of and cured meats in fancy crinkly wrappings.

"This came for you a minute ago." That's what I interpret Haymitch's to be saying through his mouth full of food.

I pick up the card.

"You're golden. They're going crazy over the coming back to life story. —Plutarch."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for all of the kind reviews. It's so nice to open my email and see them there. And I have to confess that I'm not the biggest fan of television "news" crews. Ugh. Sensationalism. That may have influenced this chapter.


	14. Chapter 14: Bread and Media Circuses

**Chapter 14: Bread and (Media) Circuses**

**Sorry for the delay in posting. The screen broke in my laptop so I'm using this really old, really slow, partially broken laptop for the time being.**

* * *

This gift is too lavish and not at all welcome. "What are we going to do about this?" I'm on the verge of panic.

"Eat it?" Haymitch jokes.

Plutarch Heavensbee. While he's probably saved my life a few times, he's also launched fireballs at me, burned me with noxious gas and released countless mutts on me. He tells bad jokes and is more concerned with TV ratings than my health. I wish he'd never fallen in that punch bowl, but that probably is my favorite memory of him. "No. Really," I scowl at Haymitch. "How do we keep the press away?"

Haymitch twitches up the corner of his mouth. "If that rat's nest," he motions at my disheveled braid, "doesn't scare them away, I don't know what will."

"Ha ha." I give him my best emotionless fake laugh. He's one to talk after all.

Peeta's brought me a cup of tea and I swirl the spoon in the greenish liquid while contemplating my fate: hide in my house forever or give in and talk to those grating imbeciles. Neither option seems particularly pleasant. But I know that the gifts and phone calls from Plutarch will keep coming until we're satisfactorily on television again. After that suggestion for a singing program, I'm surprised a crew didn't barge into my house with dresses, skin gunk and tweezers months ago.

"I suppose blowing up the train tracks is out of the question," I mutter under my breath, partially hoping no one will hear.

Peeta's grimace suggests that he did hear. _Aren't you_ _in enough trouble_? he seems to say.

"Katniss, if this gift basket is any indication there is no way Plutarch is going to completely ignore us. Either we film something or he's going to have cameras staked out—maybe installed in our houses," Peeta says. "Let's just give them an the interview in hopes that they'd leave."

I'm not giving in that easily. Summer sausage and aged cheddar might make me lunch, but it's not enough to have my scarred face plastered all over the country. "I'd rather not," I hold my ground. "Let's see how it goes."

Peeta scrunches his mouth to the side and strums his jaw with his fingers. He's annoyed.

"They're not here now," I try to reason.

He steels his gaze, folds his hands together on the table in front of him. "It's only a matter of time."

Every second buys me more time to come up with a plan—one that doesn't involve an explosion of any kind. Last time at least I had family members to distract and send the photographers away. Now I have Peeta and Haymitch who could quite easily fill the same roles. I'm determined to cling to the privacy I've had for the last few months as long as possible. "Can we tell him I don't want to be on camera with my fire mutt skin?"

"He'll send a nurse and a prep team," Haymitch says.

That sounds too much like a makeover special. I drop my head to the table and cover it with my arms. "Augh!"

"Maybe they'd be less interested if I wasn't here," Peeta whispers. "Do you want me to go back to the Capitol? I could go for a few weeks. There are some things I could do there."

He doesn't want to go. He hates it there. Why would he even say that? Rather than tell him what I think, I kick him under the table and hope he gets the message.

It's not a hard kick, not in my bare feet. It's just enough to get his attention, but still I get an eyebrow raised in disdain. I put on my best angelic face. He's not going anywhere.

"Maybe," he holds on to the word while shooting me a devilish grin. "I'll tell Plutarch we had a fight and it's a bad time."

I roll my eyes. I know he's playing and it's not that bad of a plan, except… "He'll want to film us in couples counseling," I groan.

Yes, I can just hear one of spectacled doctors from the Capitol hospital coaxing me to talk about my feelings with Peeta. He'll ask Peeta about his mother issues. And the more I think about it, maybe I'd rather kiss on camera. That's less embarrassing.

"We could agree to host a special on the district being rebuilt," Peeta says. "I'm up for that."

"I'll be sick that day," I grump. This whole situation has me in the foulest mood. Even the cheesebuns Peeta keeps pushing towards me aren't helping.

"Katniss!" He's starting to sound exasperated. And as used to me as he is, this is a feat.

* * *

The reporters descend upon District 12 en masse for the next days. I first catch a glimpse of them just two days after the Mockingjay Miracale Worker segment with aired. They all look young and have a Capitol air to them. There's a discernable lack of skin dying and face tattoos, but they make up for their otherwise conservative looks with clothing in screaming colors and caked-on turquoise and purple makeup. Instead of neon pink or blue spiked wigs, they opt for neon highlights and choppy asymmetrical haircuts.

The first crew piles haphazardly out of the train with cameras, cables and light reflectors. In dusty District 12, they're hard to miss. I see them as I'm walking through town on my way into the woods early one morning. My route isn't always this bold but I had a sneaking suspicion there would be more of them. They seem disorganized and don't work with the precision of the teams I've been accustomed to—that's what gives them away. I slink along in the shadows, intrigued but unwilling to be seen. My plan was to go hunting. Peeta had been asking for some berries. If I slip into the woods and disappear for the day I won't have to deal with them but Peeta might. I'm not sure these things bother him that much. He'd probably offer them breakfast for all I know, but he deserves a heads up. I could easily get to his house before them but I don't know how far they'd be behind me. What I need is to get him a message. When I see Thom setting up to clear rubble from where the dress shop used to be, I have my answer.

I stay in the woods all day hoping that when I come back the television crew will have given up. I hide my bow in the log—I do not want to be seen much less filmed with a bow—and start home. I drop my best game off at Thom's house in hopes that my message was delivered. I take alleyways home, curious if they're still around.

After sneaking in an unlocked basement window, I call Peeta to let him know I'm home. He got my message and said they knocked on his door minutes after Thom left. "Don't worry, I didn't say anything. I didn't let them in and I haven't even left the house."

He says he's glad I'm back and that he saw the crew take over one of the empty houses across the green with a great view of both of our houses. That means more hiding out. "I guess I'll see you when they leave." He sounds so defeated.

But today wasn't a loss. It's another day not being filmed and I'll take that.

The house is quiet as I attempt dinner for myself. Where solitude used to be the norm, the house feels cavernous and extraordinarily empty with just the sound of the ceiling fan clicking overhead to keep me company.

The next two days I spend in the woods hunting, burying my arrows into squirrels and rabbits. When I have enough game I just shoot. I try different distances and tiny points in mushrooms and other soft surfaces that won't damage my arrows. It clears my head in a way that pills and no amount of talking can.

Sae checks on me and tells me Peeta finally relented and let them film him baking bread that morning. When the phone rings, she answers it and forces it on me. It's Peeta and I slump against the wall, close my eyes and let his words wash over me. I don't remember if he was reciting his latest bread recipe or reminding me to call Dr. Aurelius. It doesn't matter because in those few minutes, we're back to our normal routine: dinner conversation. My anxiety fades and I'm left hoping his effort is enough for them to pack up and go home. I want my routine back.

I have no such luck, as there are still entirely too many cameras in the district. I slip out of the back of my house before daylight and stay gone until after it's dark. I explore a new section of the woods everyday, note where berries are greens are growing. I even go back to the lake and swim.

After three full days in the woods, I spend the next day silently shadowing the TV crew. I'm wondering what they're up to. They attempt to talk to the townspeople, ask them if they've seen me, or how I'm doing. The townspeople ignore the Capitol-styled reporters like a case of swine pox. They're so tight-lipped I want to cheer. They shake their heads, turn and walk swiftly in the opposite direction. Even the ones who always stop to say hello, and ask me how I'm doing, how Peeta is doing, stay icily silent when a microphone is thrust towards them.

It's touching really. Given my tarnished reputation and the destruction my actions caused the district, there doesn't seem to be the rage and hatred towards me that there could be, at least not among those who have returned. Even before the cameras showed, I was often greeted with smiles and smirks. Today I get amused winks from those who see me slinking in the shadows beyond the oblivious crew.

When an assistant barely glances in my direction, I have to hide out in a crumbling shack on the edge of th Seam for about an hour until they leave the area. The time for playing games is over. Guessing they will be attempting to film in the more trafficked parts of town, I head home. As I keep behind the houses, I end up staring at the back of Peeta's house. Since the crews are in town or busy packing up, maybe I could see him? Going in the front door would be too obvious, would be like stepping into a rope snare not even covered by leaves. But since his house is almost a replica of mine, I know that there's a row of basement windows that would be my best option for slipping in unnoticed. And behind a tall shrub, he's left a window unlocked. I don't think I've ever entered his house this way before and I feel more like someone aiming to steal the silver than stopping by a friend's.

I listen at the basement door for a long time before deciding he must be alone, then follow the smell of fresh baked to the kitchen.

Loaves are piled on the counter in stacks and stacks—too much bread. It's probably enough to feed everyone that's come back to Twelve. And Peeta is still baking—kneading another loaf into the proper shape.

"How are you?" I ask, hoping that his answer won't match his appearance. His shoulders slump, his head drops and his lids keep close for longer and longer intervals. I'm not sure the last time he's slept, but if the baking's any indication he has kept himself plenty busy.

He blinks at me several times before responding—long catlike blinks, as if he's trying to decide whether I'm real or not. I cross the distance between us, grasping his arm and wedging myself between him and the bread.

"I'm tired." It's as close to a whine as I've heard in a while.

"Then lie down," I direct.

"I need to clean this up," he motions his currently cluttered kitchen. "And the bread, it needs to be delivered."

"I'll do it," I practically shove him out of the prep area of kitchen. He slumps on the closest chair, one hand trying to keep his head upright on the kitchen table. His elbow slowly inches forward until his head is resting on the table.

"Are they gone?" It's a sleepy slurred mumble of words.

"Soon," I tell him.

The crew I'd been tailing today complained loudly about the woes inflicted by the "hillbilly viddles" of district. I have to snicker because since they came to town, all Sae has been serving is mystery meat stew, despite the abundance of fresh game and the first pickings of garden vegetables. And after multiple calls into their office, the crew finally got permission to come home on the evening train. That train should leave in an hour or so and I'm debating with myself whether it would be worth it to follow them to the train station to both make sure that they leave and wish them good riddance.

"Did you come for dinner?" Peeta sleep talks out of the side of his mouth. "I can make you something."

"Oh, you made plenty," I mutter as I survey the mountains of bread cresting over his counter. What in the world do I do with this much bread? There's just way too much to carry. And it has to go. Peeta's bakery bread is such a treat compared to the canned rations and stew the district relies on for sustenance. The shops haven't reopened. They haven't been rebuilt and demolition is currently underway. While I consider what to do, I run soapy water over the mixing bowls and spoons on the counter and wipe the flour off the counter.

Sae pops in and by the look on her face I don't know if she's more surprised to see me, somewhat out of hiding, or what looks to be the harvest festival table setting for a year of ample grain.

"He's been busy," she remarks as she searches for and finally finds the sleeping baker.

"Couldn't sleep?" I guess. He certainly kept himself occupied for the last day, and has finally baked himself into a little coma.

Sae sidles up to me. "He doesn't know what to do without you," she says bluntly.

It's clear that he had a little too much time on his hands, and I do know what she's saying. She's telling me not to go off and leave him for days at a time, to be a better friend, babysitter, caregiver or whatever it is we are.

"Obviously, he does," I motion to the counter. I try and brush it off as a feeble joke.

She gives me one of those looks only a mother can: eyebrows slanted in disapproval, mouth pursed and holding in a comment I'm sure I don't want to hear. She wants to tell me that I shouldn't runaway and hide from my problems.

The challenge of the moment seems to be what to do with all of this bread. He wants it delivered, but I'm hesitant to help with the threat of lurking cameras. I'm fairly certain the cameras boarded the last train out of district 12 tonight, but me carrying bread would be such a coup for them.

Sae saves me though and offers to take care of it for me. She and her granddaughter load the bread up in as many bags as they can carry. Her reproachful look tells me that I had better attend to my other duties—specifically ones currently drooling on the kitchen table.

"Let's get you to bed," I say into his elbow after we're left alone.

"You smell smoky…. like ashes," he sighs into the oak tabletop. And this is how I know getting him up is going to be a struggle. He's obviously asleep. Lucid, he'd never say something so direct and teetering towards rude. It's true. After spending so much time in town I'm sure I smell awful.

I sit at the table for a few minutes drumming my fingers and he's not budging. "Go to bed, Peeta," I try again. It can't be comfortable sleeping at a table. No response. I push my chair in as quietly as I can and head toward the door. I'll be back before he notices.

He finally raises his head and blinks at me several times. "I'm up," he says, his head still heavily drooping downward.

And after several minutes of blinking, stretching and half-starts, he's up. Only he heads towards the television and not his bedroom.

"Can't wait to see yourself on that screen," I joke. "I'm going to start calling you Caesar."

"No," he leans against the arm of the couch. "I wanted to see you."

I make a mental note to check Peeta for a fever when I have the chance. "I'm right here."

He shakes his head. "I overheard one of the assistants say there was going to be a special on you tonight, I think."

"I doubt that," I scowl. "They'd have to catch me first." Coming out it sounds like a boast and maybe it is.

Peeta faces me. His face is etched with disbelief. "Really?"

"They haven't filmed me," I defend.

"Are you sure?"

"Let's get you to bed," I lead him by the arm, hoping to change the subject. And at my touch, Peeta follows like a child. Only then do I realize I haven't seen him in almost a week. He could have been sick and I wouldn't have known. And being that he used almost all of his flour up making entirely too much bread, he's clearly not thinking straight.

Day after day of avoiding the cameras, turned into day after day of avoiding Peeta because I was too worried they would see us together. I couldn't just waltz into his front door, not with cameras across the way. I should have tried, if nothing else to check on him. I'm here now and that's all that matters. I'll make him sleep, and hopefully when he's rested, his head will be on a little straighter.

He settles obligingly into bed. I take a seat in a chair that I pull up to the side of the bed.

"Are you staying?" he asks in a voice so sincere I know that I don't have any choice but to stay.

"Maybe I should clean up first," I joke.

"I don't mind." And as if to prove it, he lays his head in my soot-covered lap. I'm not sure if a conscious action or not, but his arms encase me so tightly I couldn't leave if I wanted to. He missed me. He hated being alone. He wanted to see me. "Keep me company," he insists. "Tell me what you've been up to."

"Hmm. Well what have you been up to, Peeta. Why in the world did you bake so much bread?"

"Keeping busy," he says if it's nothing. "Something productive to do other than worry about you. I know this stresses you out. I couldn't sleep so I started baking….."

It's like knots we were both tying last year. Only, instead of starting over, he starts a new batch, over and over again. "You can sleep now," I soothe.

"I'd like that," he nuzzles my lap. He's the one being left all day and night to face the crews while I hide and he's worrying about me.

When Peeta's sound asleep I move his head to the bed and get up. I clean up and change out of my dust-scented clothes and into clothes pilfered from Peeta's dresser. My effort's almost instantly rewarded as I settle in next to Peeta. "You smell good," he wastes no time in grabbing me closer. I put my head on his chest and within minutes he's back to sleeping soundly.

* * *

"The bread." Peeta snaps upright in bed and my head is flung off his chest and onto a pillow.

"Taken care of," I smack, my mouth still not quite awake.

Peeta does a double take. He always does. This early in the morning it's hard to tell what's a dream and what's not. I pull the sheet to my shoulders and face away from him.

"Okay," he says questioningly and it's several minutes before he decides to lie back down.

I plan to stay here until the sun comes up at least. A few extra hours can't hurt. Especially, since I'm confined anyway.

He clasps my hand in his. This turns into some bear-hug-like, where he tucks my head under his chin. He draws on my cheek with his finger.

I swallow a lump in my throat. It's back to where we left off, but my stomach feels more like its full of twisting knots than enthusiastic fluttering butterflies. I shift away. It's not right.

He doesn't push, though. He cups my bony shoulder in his hand and doesn't say a word.

After so many days apart, there's a void between us—one that I caused with my selfish behavior. "I'm sorry," I squeak. He runs fingers across my back, lulling me back to sleep. Drowsily I roll over.

I will myself to stay calm, but mornings tend to mean rages or tears for me. Some rare days are close to normal, when I rush through my routine and out the door before the anxiety can creep in. But after all the rushing, sneaking and looking over my shoulder, it all catches up to me and a week's worth of worry starts pouring out. Before I couldn't afford a meltdown, so now it catches up to me how much I missed him.

Without asking, I hide my face in his chest, neither facing him nor pushing away. We stay that way, listening to each other breathe, to the sound my eyelashes make when they blink against him. This is what a quiet morning is supposed to feel like: one without the fog and the moods, one that's calm.

After a while Peeta begins to entertain me with the ridiculous tactics the crews have resorted to: the cameras in his windows, the constant swarm that makes it impossible for him to leave his house. He recounts the questions they've asked him from what type of burn medication he uses for his forehead to the inevitable what we've been doing for these last months. And true to his word, he's sidestepped all the right questions.

I describe my games of hide and seek and he laughs in all the right places. And somewhere between trading anecdotes I realize Peeta's become my best friend. He knows practically everything about me from the pills I take to keep the depression at bay to the way I always get ink smudges of the edge of my hand when I write. We were kind of thrown together here in District 12. This didn't have to happen. I could have ended up like Haymitch or found a hunting partner from among the residents who have returned, but here I am smirking when Peeta tells me what happened when a reporter with purple highlights tried to pick Buttercup up for a shot. Lounging here next to him doesn't feel forced and no one else can force a smile out of me this early.

Only, he finished his story long ago. I've been lost in thought, looking at him like he's still talking. I kind of expect a "don't you ever listen" comment but he leans back in the bed and smiles at the ceiling.

Our morning is interrupted by a knock at the door. _You don't have to get it_, I try to convey in a look. He stares at me and frowns. He lets out a sigh and moves towards the door wearing yesterday's pants and nothing else.

Instinctively, I hide under the covers, though there's no immediate threat of being found. The bedding smells clean and—the same as everything else in the house–like bread. I could stay there, but curiosity gets the best of me and I tiptoe to the top of the stairs.

"You're welcome. It's no problem. No I didn't…Hmm. If you say so. And that's the most wonderful news." That's the side of the conversation I hear.

I make it to the bottom of the stairs. I hit a squeaky board and give myself away.

"Katniss," Peeta begins towards me offering me the sly grin of good news. "The film crew left last night."

He doesn't have to say anything else. That's all I want to hear. When we meet at the base of the stairs I throw my arms around him. No more sneaking around, changing my schedule. We could actually go outside today. But, as I'm practically jumping on him, he topples over and we land in a heap on the carpet.

"They think I'm boring and they don't even think you're in the district," he laughs.

The front door clangs shut and before I look up I think Peeta's earlier visitor has come back.

"Hmmm hmmm." I'd know that obnoxious, disapproving throat-clearing anywhere. Peeta sits up and I back up towards the stairs. Any hint of laughter disappears from the room.

Peeta must not have locked the door behind him. Until this week, he never kept the door locked, so I can't blame him. No matter, this foul-smelling visitor would have barged in regardless of the lock. We might have had a few seconds notice, though.

It's never good when he's up during daylight hours, so I'm not exactly expecting cupcakes. The death glare he gives me with his bloodshot eyes as he shuffles over doesn't help ease the knot in my throat. "I knew it." He puts his hand on his scruffy chin and eyes me up and down, like he's appraising me. "You would have told us." He eases himself into a chair and lets out a long breath. It's the look he gets when he's plotting. I have no idea what's going on, but I'm hoping it's not one of his messier drunken episodes.

"It would be easier if you were missing," he grumbles. "But no," he trails away as he paces towards a chair. He flips it backwards, crosses his arms and lets out a long breath. He digs out his knife and absently cleans his nails.

"Pants," Haymitch finally grunts. "You should probably put some pants on."

After all of his huffing and puffing, I was expecting a stern lecture not fashion advice.

"I'm fine," I pick at the oversized cotton shirt I borrowed last night. Maybe it does make me look a tad guilty. It comes mid-thigh when I'm standing up. Sitting, I pull it nervously down to cover more of my scarred legs. My legs aren't so badly burned as my back but I'm almost always in pants. Peeta has the same scars as I do so he wouldn't care, but Haymitch must not want to see the disfigured hodgepodge that used to be a normal-looking leg.

"If you say so, sweetheart." He heads towards the door.

_That's it?_ I look to Peeta for more answers while I try to decide if that was Haymitch's oddest visit ever.

"I think it's cute," Peeta whispers in my ear.

To this, I blush and seriously reconsider pants. But I still have no idea what just happened or what being missing has to do with anything other than aggravating the press. I don't have time to think it over because as quickly as Haymitch left, he's back again—with reinforcements.

He brings in a tall burly man clad in large boots and black military garb. He has a flattop haircut and an earpiece in his ear. Haymitch winks at me. He did try to warn me in his own way.

He looks like the guards from that day at the mansion. All I can think of is being hauled off to my training room prison. He's going to bring me back there, I just know it. From my head to my fingertips, terror shoots through me. Why now? And why would Haymitch let them?

He takes one short glance at me and then beeps over his earpiece. "Eighty-six Freedom Rings, I have visual confirmation at the Mellark residence. Black hair. Grey eyes. Scars matching the description."

"I'll be standing by," a tiny voice chirps through his radio.

* * *

**A/N: Freedom Rings is my lame idea for a Hovercraft name. Tune in next time…Crossing my fingers to update in a reasonable time.**


	15. Chapter 15: Visitors

**Chapter 15: Visitors**

**A/N: Yes, this is a new chapter. I updated the summary AFTER the story alert email went out. So, this is not chapter 14 again.**

* * *

My hands won't stop shaking. I won't go back there. I should run, but I can't move. The guard moves in closer, stands above my hiding place at the bottom of the stairs.

"We're going to need to take your statement," he says in a voice completely different from the deep one I just heard. If I had to guess this voice is probably reserved for timid toddlers and overly fluffy house pets.

I manage a nod.

Peeta pulls a shirt over his head and hands a couch throw to me. "What's going on?" he asks Haymitch.

The older man says nothing but looks at the clock on the oven and flips on the television. He flips through the channels until he finds what he's looking for.

On the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen is an announcement that the Mockingjay has violated the terms of her release and is missing. I could bang my forehead on the banister I'm so frustrated.

After a few minutes they rerun the segment that apparently debuted on last night's evening newscast. It's not Team Magenta from the other day, but another crew that looks familiar.

"Hi Ken, we're here in lovely District 12," a reporter with purple streaks in her half-shoulder length, half chin-length bob grits her teeth. "Where the Mockingjay was released to after her trial. Oddly enough, though, we can find neither hide nor hair of her." The shot cuts to my house. With the rosebushes in bloom it doesn't look abandoned, but I'm not prancing out the front door either. "For days we knocked on her door without answer. She's not answering calls. None of her neighbors seem to have seen her either." The clip switches to town center, where one after another District 12 residents shake their head at the camera when asked about me. They're not talking, but the reporter tries to pass it off as though they haven't seen me. "Is she even in the district? It certainly doesn't look that way."

And it hits me. Peeta warned me about this "special" last night.

"This caught the public's attention," the well-muscled officer grunts. "The judge sent me to check on you when no one could get in touch with you." He glares in Haymitch's direction. "Or your mentor. We had to check into whether you were gone or not."

Of course I'm in trouble with the government. Aren't I always?

"I told you she was here," Haymitch grumbles to no one in particular. "But no one thought to look here. Why would the Mockingjay be at her boyfriend's house?"

Muscles takes a seat at the kitchen table, where all strategy meetings are held these days. He spreads some papers out in front of him and I know it must be time for my statement. I head over his way, thankful at least not to be dragged anywhere yet.

"Where have you been all week?" Muscles asks.

"She's been here all week," Peeta answers before I can get a word in.

"Miss Everdeen?" he sends a stern glare in the baker's direction.

"I've been here in the district." I try to discern what boxes he's checking and what the upside-down words are that he's printing in block letters.

"Then why did we get a complaint that you weren't here?"

"She doesn't like the cameras," Peeta says. "She was hiding from them. Surely, there's no crime in that."

"So, we're to believe that a camera crew was camped out at her house and didn't get a shot of her for an entire week?"

Haymitch chimes in. "Did you see her games? Think about it."

Muscles shakes his flat-top in exasperation. The boys are having this conversation like I'm not in the room. I have to wonder how many times they've run through this drill without me.

"So you haven't left the district at any point since your release?" he returns his attention to me.

"I have not," I answer honestly, trying to get a few words in.

"What have you been doing all week?"

"I went out to the woods. I gathered some berries, climbed some trees. I left early so maybe the camera missed me. I came home late, too." I leave out the part about gutting rabbits and all other references to knives, arrows, death and killing in general. That seems best.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"I didn't want to talk to reporters." The boys seem to be letting me handle this, however reluctantly.

"So if your mother called, you wouldn't have answered?"

"She'd understand."

"What about Dr. Aurelius?"

That part I did forget. I frown.

"Have you been at your house every night?"

I look at Peeta. I could lie—say I came over this morning.

"Last night I was sick and she was taking care of me," Peeta says. I'm not sure it's entirely true. He wasn't feeling well. He did need someone to keep an eye on him, though. "Other than that, I know she's been at her house."

Muscles checks some boxes on the forms and writes a few words here and there.

"This is highly unusual," the black clad man stacks the documents and taps them on the table. "Well, you're in the district now. You don't look to be in any danger or posing a threat to the community. We have no evidence that you've left. I'll have to file a report to clear all of this up."

He stuffs the papers in a black file case. "You'll need to resume calling Dr. Aurelius. That can continue to be your check-in. Keep your weekly calls up and we'll dismiss this matter. I don't think we need to do anything else for the moment."

He looks directly at me. "If you neglect your calls, you'll be seeing my pretty face again. And not that I don't love District 12, but next time I won't be so pleasant." He taps his utility belt as he says this. Peacekeepers had guns. But whatever is in that belt, I probably don't want to know.

"Really, it's quite a good deal," he tells me. "Keep the phone calls up and no prison time."

He stands up and asks me to sign some form. He's not hauling me back to that training room. What a relief.

"And you," he stares down Haymitch. This crafty victor apparently does not intimidate him. "I'll have a crew repair your broken telephone as soon as possible."

It's the first time I've seen that look on Haymitch's face since we've been home—guilt.

"Ten-four Freedom rings," Muscles talks into his earpiece. "Matter is handled. I'll be awaiting pickup."

Muscles nods goodbye to Peeta and me.

Haymitch mutters something under his breath. It sounds like: "You should just stick a tracker in that one."

* * *

It doesn't look like I'm going dragged back to the Capitol but there's still the issue matter of the country thinking there's a dangerous mad girl on the loose, no longer among the bombed out remnants of the former mining district.

I'll have to prove that I am indeed terrorizing the construction crews not perusing the fur underwear boutiques of the Capitol. This brings us back to Peeta's earlier solution which I grudgingly relent to. Finding what he needs amongst a pile of scraps of paper, he picks up the phone to make the dreaded agreement.

"Peeta! So nice to hear from you," Cressida's voice comes across the line as I crane my head to listen in. She and Pollux send the occasional letter checking in and they'd end up filming us, so calling their extension—instead of the main office—made more sense. Cressida and Pollux I trust. I don't trust Plutarch as far as I could throw one of his ridiculous fruit baskets.

Peeta makes small talk about the district making the phone call seem like a social call for an old friend. Cressida tells him all about her promotion, her new ergonomic office chair and the new cameras with autofocus that won't work on faces that have been dyed, tattooed, pierced or modified too much.

"I was just wondering about the reporters that have been in District 12 recently. A little notice might have been nice." So diplomatic and straight to the point, I wouldn't have said anything that polite.

"Oh that first team," Cressida laughs. "We lost some reporters in the war so we have a lot of really fresh reporters in the ranks. That team was scrounged up from some show on the soap opera channel, said they wanted to do real news. Please, that reporter, whatever-his-name-is, was filming a segment on gardening in 11. A butterfly landed on him and he wouldn't stop screaming—on live TV. Going to 12 was his punishment. They got lucky finding you two. What were you thinking?"

"There hadn't been a camera here in ages," Peeta grimaces. "What are the odds?"

"They're certainly not in your favor. I can tell you that much. And after that, it was all downhill. You know they'd come. We would have come if we hadn't been swamped. We wouldn't have let you off the hook that easily. Tell Katniss, I wouldn't have let her hide from me. I'd have had her singing, I'm sure," she boasts so seriously I have to laugh.

"It was a little too normal in District 12," he sighs. "I should have known."

"Normal doesn't pull in ratings, kid," she says. "So what's going on with you and Katniss?"

"We can't even leave our houses," Peeta complains as scripted. "That's not good."

"That's the price of fame." She sounds wholly unconcerned.

"We were just wondering if you knew when the reporters would be in 12—so we could be prepared. You know Katniss and her hair and makeup." Peeta winks at me.

Cressida snorts. "I'm sure they would let you know in advance for anything official…but with all these new reporters vying for position….hmmm….I can see what I can do. What did you have in mind?"

"Well, we'd kind of like to avoid these lurking-in-bushes crews whenever possible, and with all the rebuilding in the district …. If you needed someone to give an update when the new buildings start going up, I could help out."

"The both of you or there's no deal."

All of this was already agreed upon before Peeta ever dug up the letter with her phone number, but still I'm smirking at the game they're playing. She's pushing all her chips on the table and waiting for his call. If Peeta wasn't so blonde-haired and blue-eyed, I'd have thought he spent a lot of time in backroom card games in the Hob.

"Obviously, you're our preferred crew," Peeta adds a pinch of charm. "We might be willing to host some special on the district in a month or so if we weren't confined to our houses."

"Seems reasonable."

They finish the deal. If she knows in advance, she'll tip him off. They work out the specifics and I lose interest in listening in.

"And Peeta," she says as they're wrapping the conversation up. "You two have been through so much and can get through anything." All the take-no-prisoners edge that had been in her voice just moments before disappears. I pretend I'm busy with a splinter wedged in the fleshy part of my thumb and didn't hear it. I wouldn't know how to react.

Peeta says nothing to this. He doesn't look at me. He looks straight ahead and swallows.

"So, if say things were going well, and you had something to announce, you'd let us know first?" And that edge is back is Cressida's voice. She plays it off as a business deal instead of concern.

"You'll be the first to know when I open my bakery," he says after the tiniest pause. It's not what she's asking about and he knows it. "I'll be in touch." He hangs up the phone before she can ask about white dresses and guest lists.

* * *

Between our deal and a strategically placed rumor of a swine pox epidemic in the district, our town resumes its dusty quietness—one undisturbed by selective focus lenses and lavalier microphones.

The quiet, however, doesn't last as cranes and bulldozers arrive on flatbed trailers of the trains chugging in and out of the district. And as sad as it is to see the blackened carcasses of the shoe shop or general store flattened by a wrecking ball and great noisy beasts of machinery, the rebuilding can't start without it. The structures aren't safe and have to be removed. Peeta even agrees for them to clear away the sparse shell of what used to be his family's bakery.

The day the massive machine starts on the bakery, Peeta insists on watching the entire process, even in the heat of midday. I take the day off from hunting, bring him water and try to keep him together. I sit with him, though he's mostly silent.

"What's your favorite memory?" I look towards the dust and ashes that mark his childhood home. A huge jaw-like scoop picks up rubble from the corner of the site and dumps into the back of a massive truck. "I remember the cakes in the window. It was nice to see something so beautiful in District 12," I tell him. He squeezes my hand.

"The first time I decorated a passable cake," he says vacantly. "Mother was delighted. My brothers teased me about the flowers, said it looked like a girl frosted them. The mayor bought that cake—and that shut them up. Father even came and secretly gave me some of our fancy wedding cookies. The powdery kind that melts in your mouth."

The ground rumbles beneath us and the groan from the bulldozer's engine pounds through my chest, but still Peeta sits unmoving as his family's legacy is piece by piece reduced to discarded scraps of what used to be lumber and sheetrock. It's his family's final resting place, but the site is treated no different than the tailor's shop or the feed shop and one jawful at a time placed in a dumpster.

I can understand why he has to be here to see this, but I worry about him all the same. When I bring him dinner, I bring his sketchbook as well. As he draws he tells me stories about his family. On a scrap of paper from the back of his book I write down everything I can. His dad liked to make cookies and loved to make children smile with the colorful treats. His mother could stretch dough to make more loaves than anyone. His brothers had contests to see who could sell the most bread in an evening and snuck cupcakes to the girls they liked. By the time the last black pile of the bakery drives off in the truck, I'm not fighting the tears. I will never know his family. His mother will never gnash her teeth in a fake smile toward me. His brothers will never tease me. His father won't sneak me cookies.

There's a chalky slab of ground in front of us. They'll pour a new basement within the week and thanks to the swift machinery we now have access to the bakery could be rebuilt in a few short months. Many of the other neighboring shops should open by that time, or by the end of the year. Our TV spot will cover this information—the good news from District 12 that doesn't get reported often enough.

* * *

Peeta sits in bed with his back propped up against the headboard, his legs under the sheets and a sketchpad propped up on his lap. He's quietly drawing by the lamplight while I try to sleep. As I hear his pencil scratch down the paper I wonder if he's drawing the bakery again, but that's not what's really on my mind.

"Do you still dream about losing me?" I muse. It's one of those things that I'm more tempted to say when half asleep with him next to me. I used to know. I'm not sure what he dreams about these days. He keeps a lot of that to himself. Some nights, his limbs feel like a vice around me and it makes me wonder what's going on in his sleeping head.

We end up together most nights. Whether we're drawn together by the nightmares or because neither of us really should be alone in our houses together, I don't know but it becomes our pattern.

He studies me, furrows his brow and sets the pad on the nightstand. "I've always dreamed about losing you. Even when I was in 13 and was convinced you were a mutt. The dreams were so confusing. I was supposed to hate you, yet I dreamed about kissing you or holding you. I'd dream about you in a puddle of blood or being taken away from me and wake up paralyzed with fear. I had convoluted nightmares about you trying to kill me. I couldn't make any sense of it. This," he wraps an arm around me, "is so much simpler, having you here next to me."

"So you like me not being a mutt?" I brush Peeta's heartfelt confession off with an air of playfulness.

"It's certainly safer that way, I think," he says giving me a look of teasing concern. A smile passes between us and it seems so easy to lie here with him. I shift down under the covers, moving a little closer to him. He flips the bedside lamp off.

"You just make me feel so much….better," he breathes. It's the kind of thing he says when he thinks I'm sleeping and I'm not sure I'm supposed to hear. "I don't how it's even possible, but I feel like you heal me."

Peeta's words echo through my head as I finally drift off to sleep. I smile to myself to think of him as healed. He deserves it. But me? He's been there through the bad days, forcing medicine and food on me. He's been there, listening, supporting. And I know that he's not the only one healing.

After that night he seems to worry less about what my mother thinks and spends every night he can at my house. We sleep. The nightmares come and the other is there. I thrash and he's still. It's like the nights on the train—only there aren't death threats looming overhead, there's not Quell ahead, just sleep.

Peeta likes to rise early to bake bread—which suits me because I like to be in the woods hunting by daybreak—so we go to bed early.

When I oversleep, he lets me because he likes watching me sleep. I finish my hunting before the day gets unbearably hot and always check on Peeta in his kitchen. I worry he'll have a flashback while putting something in the oven or slicing bread with those long serrated knives. I don't spend too much time taste-testing cake batter, but I pop in enough to check on him. His flashbacks come weekly, sometimes more, and I try to stay with him to give him something to hold onto.

The day of our filming approaches and Peeta writes the script. He makes us rehearse the lines at dinner every night. I stumble through them and try Peeta's patience. Part of me hopes that if I'm no longer deemed camera-ready I will be left alone.

The evening before we're supposed to film our TV segment, Cressida, Pollux and their crew arrive in town. Peeta walks them through town showing buildings that might make good backgrounds. They interview the head of construction for the new version of the Justice Building, a family who is opening a garden supply shop and a man who will be opening a tool shop, but until then sells tools out of his patched-up house in the Seam.

I watch them enter the designated house at Victor's Village and I feel like I'm standing on a metal plate—waiting for this whole cycle to start over again.

"Come on, Katniss," Peeta prods. "We haven't seen them in forever."

They've invited us over for a dinner they brought especially for us, but I'm not budging from my spying window seat. He leans into me and whispers, "I know you'll like the food."

I give the foulest look the muscles in my face can manage. He tries to lead me out of the house by the hand. I slap my hand away. "No!" I scream. It takes him by surprise. "None of this! Don't—not in public."

He takes a deep breath. "Fine," he gives in. "Just come for dinner."

And soon I'm trudging across the green headed over to yet another task I don't want to do. The house is abuzz with activity when I enter. The crew hustles from one room to the next. Batteries are being charged, light kits put up for the night and film from the day edited in the formal living room. Peeta goes to check out the footage so I go in the opposite direction and decide to watch Pollux carefully put away his camera. He wraps the cords so they don't tangle and inserts a new memory stick in for tomorrow's recording. He nods when he sees me a tiny bit of my foul mood melts away.

I sit next to Pollux at dinner so I don't have to say much and to be as far away from Peeta as possible. Still, we're a curiosity at dinner. I see them glancing across the table trying to figure us out.

Peeta plays the role of enchanting host and tells the crew everything about District 12—except for what they really seem to want to know. He speaks enthusiastically about construction plans and his bakery. He toasts to the rebuilding of the district and has everyone laughing and in good spirits—everyone except me.

He seems to be thoroughly enjoying himself with the company of so many friends. There hasn't been a lot of that lately. For us, a crowd is having Haymitch, Sae and her granddaughter in the same house for a few seconds.

Through all of his anecdotes, he always keeps his attention on me. When he thinks the others aren't looking, he pleads with those stupid eyelashes for me to cheer up and have a good time. But they wouldn't recognize me without my trademark scowl, so it stays in place—regardless of those blonde eyelashes' powers.

The crew is in such good spirits they break open a case of wine they were supposed to be bringing home. I enthusiastically take a glass—tonight seems like the perfect evening for a drink. Peeta whispers something to Cressida. "Yes, that doesn't mix. We need you filming tomorrow," she says and takes away my glass. Peeta reluctantly gives up his glass, too.

Since the booze is flowing, Haymitch wanders in. He drinks two glasses of wine before looking and Peeta and me. "What's with you two? Shouldn't you be all kissy face with each other? Go on. You've got an audience."

That gets everyone talking. I'd like to storm out, but instead leave silently when conversation turns to something else.

Peeta goes to his house that night. I leave his place in the bed and brood over whatever awful thing the alcohol prompted Haymitch to say after I left. My phone rings. I know who it is before answering.

"I just wanted to say goodnight," Peeta says. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Come over?" I ask. As much as I distanced myself from him at the party, I feel like tomorrow's ordeal would be easier to face if I weren't alone.

"The prep team will be here in the morning."

I don't care anymore. I can't fall asleep with the spot next to me empty, but he's playing by the rules I set earlier. "Honestly, they've seen it before."

"Oh."

In just that one note, I can tell he's confused. He says it that way when he wants to remember something but can't. "Before the Quell," I prompt. "Do you remember?"

"Tell me about it," he says so gently. "It will help."

"Come over. I'll tell you."

There's a pause on the line and can picture him fidgeting as he weighs the offer. But I don't make him wait, that's cruel.

"I was so certain I was going to die," that's what I choke out. I don't tell him the story, neatly, or in order. It's just too hard, but enough words come that maybe he understands.

Sleep is coming and before my eyelids shut one last heavy time, he says: "You must have really..."

In the middle of the night I wake with the phone in my hand. I stumble to an empty bed.

* * *

Three blurry figures stand over my bed. At first I think it's another round of prison guard nightmares so I throw the pillow over my head and hope the thrashing will trigger a new dream. But I peak and rather than overly muscled men, I see the brightly colored forms of Venia, Octavia and Flavius. When they don't come at me with hot wax and tweezers, I know something is off on my nightmare.

They're really here. They took the train overnight to arrive in the morning and I overslept. They make a half-effort to hug me when I fall out of the bed in a sleepy-haze but then quickly usher me to the bathroom where a shower is running. The bathroom has been transformed in to beauty station. A nail booth is set up with a tray table by the tub. A kitchen chair in front of the mirror is the hair station and closer to the door is where all the makeup is located. Because this shoot won't take too long I thankfully won't need a head to toe makeover.

I put on a long robe so there's no need for them to see my crisscross of angry scars. That would probably cause waterworks I've never had the patience for.

"Nails first," says Venia. "Only half chewed to bits," she proclaims examining my hand after I'm seated. She buffs the nails and applies a few coats of clear polish with a pinkish hue. I'm more awake now and she starts telling me all about her new apartment in the Capitol and the makeup jobs they're doing for all the new TV stations. She even tells me about seeing the other districts in her recent travels. I'm also relieved that I don't have to get artificial nails this time.

Flavius has his golden curls back. He wears his trademark purple lipstick, which is now matched by purple eyeliner and a purple silk shirt. My hair needs conditioning desperately, or so he tells me. He leaves the slime in for a long time and then makes a point of leaving the bottle of conditioner and telling me to use it. His next task is covering my bald patches. My hair is longer now, so he evens it out. I would have thought it to be a more difficult task, but I think he does it in three wrist flicks.

My eyebrows are next. Over the months they've reverted to heir feral state, but the team has come prepared for this. They use some peppermint smelling aqua colored gel that numbs my eyebrows so I don't get watery eyes each time a hair is torn from my skin.

Then they're off to makeover Peeta while they give me time to look over my wardrobe choices. I peek into the bags hanging in a spare bedroom. All of my choices are long sleeves—which is odd since the weather is so warm but suits me just fine. I look through dress jackets, tunics, dress shirts, T-shirts, light sweaters even long sleeve dresses. I immediately rule out the dresses and the formal jackets.

I sit down at the kitchen table and eat a very late breakfast while waiting for my team to come back. Cressida's assistant comes over and drills me on my lines while I mumble through bites of toast.

Octavia comes back while the other two work with Peeta. She looks greener than she should—even with her fading skin dye. I don't think they've ever worked with him before. And if my scars brought them to tears—Peeta's would probably give them a breakdown.

I give her hand a squeeze. "He's been through a lot."

She shakes her head. "He used to be so handsome. But his scars…They sent me out when I couldn't handle his leg."

"That's my fault," I say without thinking.

She puts her hands firmly on my shoulders and looks me dead in the eyes. "No, Katniss, it's not." She gulps. "The Capitol did that to him—not you." Squeaky, Capitol-born Octavia—I would never have thought her capable of this. "And for that, I'm sorry."

I'm in shock, but she continues. "Before we started working with you, I didn't see the tributes as flesh and blood people—children even. They seemed like something from far way, out of a storybook. Why I'd seen poodles with better manners than some of the tributes. But you, you were real and that changed everything. And….well so much is changed," she finishes and I sit, stunned into silence, until Octavia starts with her more usual line of gossip.

She fills me in on how her life since the Capitol fell and my incident. She's letting her skin dye fade so she's a light green—a sick looking color but in a year the skin dye should fade. It's expensive and painful to buff the dye out of the skin so she's just leaving it. She's left her hair auburn, which I approve of, but she tells me Flavius is trying to talk her into purple highlights. The highlights must trigger something because then it's back to sunflower contact lenses and the LED tights she found on the black market.

"Are we matching today?" I ask when she brings me to the wardrobe area that's been set up in a spare bedroom.

"Do you want to match?" The question seems to imply more than wardrobe choice, so I shrug.

"Well then, let's just pick out something that doesn't clash."

She holds up a white shirt. I dismiss it because unless it's made with some dirt-defying thread, it won't stay white in the construction zone we're headed to. We decide on black pants, a light blue shirt with bell sleeves and a grey lightweight scarf to hide the scars on my neck. While I dress she heads three houses down to check on his wardrobe.

The trio comes back to paint me up. From my eyelids to my nail beds, I'm not complete until every inch of exposed skin is covered in goo. They even use thick concealer on my hands. Flavius says that I might want to consider getting my scars tattooed if they can't be buffed out. He thinks flames on my hands might be especially fitting. I give him a half-smile instead of the screaming tirade I'm tempted to.

I look in the mirror I see someone from before—someone before the arrow on the balcony, someone before the house-coated housewife still eating breakfast.

I fight down the urge to scream at them to undo it all. I'm not that innocent girl anymore. I can't be. Not after what I've done.

But I put on the face and whisper, "Thank you. It's wonderful." I'll do it if for nothing else than to my make my mother sit a little taller while she watches TV with the other doctors in the hospital's break room.

I catch my first glimpse of made-over Peeta when he comes in the front door to collect me. He must have been swayed by the team's opinion as he's dressed in a soft-looking white long sleeve shirt. Like me, he's practically been dipped in skin gunk. Before I realize it, I'm grinning at him. Seeing Peeta without his scars makes him look put back together. He looks more like the boy who introduced me to dipping pieces of bread in hot chocolate. He looks like he did before, without the constant reminders of pain and war. I have enough reminders. I really don't need anymore.

The in-demand makeup team has an afternoon appointment, so they depart in a flurry of hugs, sobs and warnings to use conditioner.

Peeta and I walk to town, where the crew has selected an appropriate background for the shot. Black X's are marked on the spots we're to stand on and crewmembers are directing townspeople away from our location. We're to stand in front of where the old justice building used to stand. The rubble has been cleared away, a foundation poured and the first skeleton of a wall has gone up.

Peeta runs through his lines one more time and put his note cards in his pocket. The red light on the camera blinks on. Cressida starts the countdown just in time for Peeta to have a seizure on live TV.

* * *

**A/N: I am addicted to celebrity gossip. (I'm trying to cut down.) The paparazzi scenes (and consequences) are influenced by that**. **And FYI, whenever I upload more than 5,000 words for a chapter FFn likes to randomly eat words. I tried to comb through this before it was posted. So fingers crossed, I caught most.**


	16. Chapter 16: Confessions

**Ch. 16: Confessions**

I have about four seconds notice. The cameras are trained on us as Cressida holds up fewer and fewer fingers. That gives me just enough time to take a breath and clear my head. I look beyond the camera to have a single second of reprieve before it happens.

In the distance a bee buzzes. I can see the gold hue from here. Peeta's eyes are locked on it. He's not moving. Not yet. But it's started. I can tell that much. Sometimes we have seconds notice, sometimes he'll know that it's going to be a bad day, sometimes there's no warning at all. But this is one of his triggers and he's seen it so there's no go going back—only forward.

I take Peeta's hand tightly in my own—breaking the rule I so stubbornly set because there's nothing else for him to hold onto. Our microphones are the size of pins and attach to our clothing. If they'd given us a regular size microphone he could hold on to that. I feel him twitch. The countdown ends and I sidestep directly in front of him so the camera is only on me.

"This is Katniss Everdeen in District 12. We're going to tell you all about the rebuilding currently underway, but first a word from our sponsors." I smile a big fake smile and channel Effie Trinket as I try, for the first time in my life, to look perky. I'm sure reporters are supposed to look like they're working on a big, big exciting story, but I'm trying to look as though Peeta isn't going to start convulsing in the time it takes Cressida to hit the button switching the feeds. It gives me something to distract myself with so I don't fall apart before the shoot ever really begins. I want this done.

Cressida gives me a questioning look, but nonetheless I see on the portable monitor where the station switches over to an advertisement for a summer sports competition just as Peeta hunches to the ground.

"He's having one of his flashbacks," I explain. She and Pollux should remember. They've seen him do this before.

Cressida's eyes go to the cloudless sky. I try to take Peeta's example and interpret it more as a more a gesture for divine help, than a comment on his impeccable timing.

Crouching on the ground, I try to gauge bad this episode is. He's tense, slumped over, scrunching his fluttering eyelids which means he's still in the episode. Not a good sign. It's not one his five-seconds-and-done episodes and his pills aren't in his pockets because he's wearing borrowed clothes. I don't have time to get them myself or give someone else enough details to find them, so his passing out is probably the best I could hope for. I get one of the burly microphone technicians to get him to the side of a building, out of the sunlight and out of camera's frame.

"Give me five and I'll do it live by myself," I say in the most no-nonsense voice I can muster. This was supposed to be my sick day. Peeta was supposed to do all the talking. Instead I'm dealing with a very ill boy and a live TV segment that I haven't adequately prepared for.

"Peeta," I put my head on his forehead and grab both of his hands. Last night was such a wasted effort. I know they're watching. I can feel it, but I can't let it get to me. "Peeta, hey there. Why don't you take a little nap? You'll feel so much better if you do." I whisper soothing words to him, trying to get the twitching to stop. He holds my hands with a ferocity that tells me he's still in a Capitol-created hell. I need him to snap out of it, sleep, to pass out without anything worse happening.

"Is he going to be ok?" Cressida bends over to ask.

"Not in five minutes." There's desperation in my voice. There's no covering it up.

"Katniss, you'll do fine." She does her best to reassure me.

I wedge one of my hands away from Peeta's vice grip and dig his note cards out of his pockets. I read his notes quickly.

"Sixty seconds, Katniss."

He's still clenching my hand, in his place of pain. This is a particularly long episode.

"Come on Peeta. We need this to be over." Nothing works. I cave and sing a few bars of a lullaby into his ear.

"Five seconds. You need to move, Katniss."

And he slumps over asleep. I leap back into position.

"This is Katniss Everdeen back again. Sorry about that. You never know what's going to happen in District 12." I cluck my tongue to the top of my mouth, like Effie taught me, so that my cheeks rise like I'm smiling. Given my history, I'd rather not look like I'm having a meltdown, though that might make for good TV.

By some miracle I remember all of Peeta's lines about which buildings are being rebuilt, what's going to be new in town, even his jokes. Apparently, I was listening all those nights we rehearsed. I'm upbeat without mumbling, likable and not the least bit sullen—a complete stranger to myself.

When Cressida signals we're done, I sink to the ground, bring my knees to my chest and cover my face with my hands. What a day.

"Dazzling, Katniss," Cressida claps her hands together. "I knew you had it in you. Just lovely," she exclaims, like she doesn't believe it herself.

But it's not really the time to celebrate. "How's he doing?" I ask the assistant who kept an eye on Peeta during filming.

"Out." he replies.

He's always shaken after his episodes. They take a lot out of him. Sometimes he just needs to sit down for a few minutes. Sleeping helps him recover. When I can't get him to go to sleep after an episode, I try to get him to relax. He wants to be brave and assure me he's fine, but he's not.

I check on Peeta, who is indeed out. His forehead is warm and his fists are clenched into tight balls.

"I'm so sorry," I say to the crew. "I know you were expecting both of us to do the segment. I don't think he's going to be up to filming any time soon."

"It's fine, Katniss. We got what we needed."

The crew has enough footage with my segment and last night's interviews so they start packing away the flimsy gold light reflectors.

"Ratings are good," Cressida's assistant announces. With one hand pressed to an earpiece, she listens in to some omnipotent controller in the main office. "Mockingjay's first words on television since her trial. They're eating it up. Repeats are already being ordered," she relays the message. "We did it," she smirks and I'm not sure if it's in disbelief or relief—probably a little bit of both.

That means they're cleared go home or wherever their next stop is. Pollux and the boom microphone technician help me get Peeta back to Victor's Village. While everyone else goes ahead, Pollux takes Peeta back to my house. He didn't take Peeta to his own house and he didn't even ask before putting Peeta down in my bed. I guess after today, there's nothing for them to ask.

Pollux pats my arm as he leaves. His eyes are sad. I give him a hug and mean to thank him. The words form in my mouth but the sound never comes. He nods as he leaves. And in that moment, I'm thankful that it was him. While I might not be fan of the never ending Katniss Evderdeen documentary, if someone has to turn a camera on me, it might as well be this brave, sympathetic man. If anyone understands loss and survival, it's him.

From a window I watch the crew leave. I thought I'd feel better with them gone, but I suddenly want more time to visit, to hear more stories about their travels through the district. But it couldn't be tonight anyway.

All of today's activities wiped me out. It doesn't look like Peeta's going to wake up any time so I might as well go to sleep. I take off his boots and make him more comfortable for the warm night. In the bathroom I wash my makeup off along with the soot from District 12. It's been a long time since I've had on makeup. It's the face I put on when I'm pretending. But what am I pretending today? That things are okay? That I'm all smiles when the cameras show up? That I'm not a scarred relic of the war? I don't know.

Peeta stirs long enough to take some of his medication with his eyes still closed. I crawl in with him. He must register I'm there because he settles his head on my lap. As unexpected as this day has been, this is something familiar.

I pull the sheet up, effectively tucking him in and I lean back to watch him sleep. If you take away the scars, he's just a boy—kind to the core. One who wants nothing more than to take care of his make-shift family, to remember everything he's forgotten and to coax a smile out of me as often as possible.

My hands end up in his hair. It's shorter today—neater. Obviously trimmed this morning, there's less of it to weave through. I don't know what Flavius did to his hair, but it's as silky as any of Cinna's dresses, gliding softly through my fingers.

I'm humming softly to myself as I sit in the bed with him. It's a simple tune meant to make babies fall asleep. My humming turns to singing almost imperceptibly to myself. After the first verse, his breathing steadies. I shift the bangs off his forehead. "My father used to sing this to Prim," I tell him, hoping that it might be a small comfort to him—one I'm sure he won't remember.

After the second verse, my eyelids are heavy. I can't stay up a second longer so I place Peeta's head on the pillow and settle under the covers.

I feel Peeta shift his weigh in the bed. I open half an eye as he nestles closer. It's warm and comfortable and I don't budge. "I love you, Katniss," he whispers into our shared pillow.

I'm sure he's sleeping so I stay as still as I can and pretend to be sleeping myself. Maybe he's talking in his sleep or I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming.

* * *

"What happened?" A confused, shirtless Peeta is propped up on an elbow looking down at me. His eyes are wild like after one of his prison cell nightmares, only it's light out now.

He's glancing between his clothes neatly folded in the chair next to my bed and me.

"Umm." I don't know how to begin to answer this question. I roll over, wanting to go back to sleep more than I want to tell him that he wasn't Mr. Perfect on camera yesterday. I wrap my arms around him, trying to prolong this conversation for as long as possible.

He does need to know. He hates the not knowing. But it's not the way I want to start the day. He relaxes a little at my touch. I take the opportunity to pull the sheet up over our heads. He seems to take my hint.

"Nevermind, don't tell me," he crooks an eyebrow up at me, bending his smile to match.

I laugh at him and stay in our warm little tent.

"You certainly are in a better mood," I comment.

"Because you're here." And with this I know he's back with these sleep-syrupy sweet phrases that I will never get used to. He reaches for my hands and I can almost see the glee drain from his eyes. "Katniss, what happened to your hands?"

I look down and see that they're bruised. I advert my eyes. I have to tell him. It's inevitable. "What do you remember about yesterday?"

I can see the instant the thought hits his brain. "The TV segment!" He throws the sheet back down, the whites of his eyes widen. He cranes his head forward and tenses his neck. "I don't remember it."

And I tell him, "That's because you didn't do it."

All the earlier playfulness flits instantly away and Peeta stiffens. "That's not good."

"Don't worry I did the segment." It's an effort not to roll my eyes. "It will probably be in repeats all day," I assure him.

"Katniss, you didn't even know your lines. What do you mean you did it? And why didn't I? I think I remember going out there with you."

I sigh. "Just as Cressida was counting down, you had a flashback. I did the segment. When we were done, they carried you back here. That's how you got to the bed."

"So I did this to you?" He looks down, heartbroken over my hands.

"It's fine," I say. "Really, don't worry about." Bruises are really the least of my worries. Nothing was broken. It's only a little temporary color added to my already decorated hands.

Peeta gets up and starts pacing the room, hands in his hair, muttering under his breath. I let him walk it off but bring him his pills in the meantime, hoping to restore some semblance of balance.

"Let's go get breakfast," I soothe, trying to convey that I'm not upset and I wish he wasn't either.

"Breakfast," he repeats, practically panting from his outburst. He nods and follows me downstairs no longer muttering, but still keeping a tentative distance.

He stays glued to the TV, no doubt searching for yesterday's special, while I make eggs and toast for breakfast.

Sae has stopped bringing breakfast. She still checks in often enough to make sure I'm fed. She likes to poke me in the ribs with that wooden spoon she always keeps in her apron and tell me I'm still too skinny for her tastes. She'll bring the occasional dinner over, but it seems to be more of a social call and than a mother mandated health and wellness check.

I'm scrambling eggs when there's a knock on the door. Expecting it to be one of the neighbors looking for Peeta to trade for muffins or bread, Peeta heads toward the door. He's the one who gets visitors that aren't on the payroll for looking after him.

"I have a delivery for a K. Everdeen," a male voice loudly states. It's definitely not one of the neighbors. I do get deliveries, most of which I pick up myself at the train station. When I look to the door I see a young looking man in a delivery uniform and requisite earpiece, with a small scanner in his hand.

"She's making breakfast, can I help you with it?" Peeta says a little too cheerfully.

"You're Peeta," exclaims the deliveryman. "And Katniss!" An incoherent mess of flattery follows. "I love you guys! When he said he loved you since he was five and when said you just wanted to keep him safe… I hate to bother you, but can I get a picture?"

I look at Peeta, who didn't bother to put on a shirt. I'm in my pajamas and turning redder by the second. I duck behind the oven. Why didn't we ever learn to be discreet? Now half the country will be talking.

"I can't wait to tell my friends I met you," he gushes. "Is this where you're registered at? I'm sure my grandmother would send you something."

What is he talking about?

"Thank you very much for the package." And I hear the sound of the door shutting and being swiftly bolted. Peeta shuffles over with the biggest box I've ever seen.

After all that fuss, I'm afraid to even find out what's in this box. It's definitely not our usual shipment of canned vegetables. Baking supplies wouldn't be addressed to me and I have a suspicion this is not one of my mother's guilty-conscience gifts, sent when she feels bad for leaving me alone.

I peer at it, like it's a wounded fox, not sure if it's still alive or waiting to buck up and bite me if I draw near. But it appears to be a normal enough brown box. It's not thrashing or ticking or making any kind of noise. It's almost the size of my fire place and has markings from a fancy Capitol store called Adorno.

Inside I find a note.

_Tell that boy of yours to get well soon. You're still golden._

—_Plutarch_

"I'm surprised he didn't send skydivers in with silver parachutes," I snort, looking at the expedited shipping label. He probably had it sent in via hovercraft.

Under the card is an assortment of teas and a blanket softer than my most worn out clothes. "What kind of gift is this?" I scoff, trying hard not to like any token from the former head gamemaker.

"A get-well gift?" Peeta says, holding the card. He fingers the fabric. "I feel better already," he goads me.

"What kind of message is this sending? A blanket from a fancy bedding store from the Capitol? The deliveryman asking us where we're registered? Do you see where this is going?"

"Feel this blanket."

I'm horribly embarrassed about this morning, but more so I'm worried about the rumors and whatever that will mean for what little of my sanity has grown back.

Peeta wraps the blanket around me. "Where were we this morning?" He leans in for a kiss. The distraction almost works, except that I know this trick too well.

"I'm going hunting." And I'm changed and out the door before he has time to respond.

I busy myself with digging out pungent onions and gathering ripe berries. I bury my arrows in rabbits trying not to think about Peeta and what all of this means.

It seems that privacy will always be an issue. Everyone that I care about knows he stays over. Even my mother knows because he answers the phone in the morning. I decide that I worry most over her being embarrassed, so I'll call her and talk to her. Everything else I won't worry about.

I head back into town. I pass Peeta's house and see him baking.

After dinner I dial District Four.

"Katniss, you've called me twice in one week. Is everything all right?"

"I was just thinking…I worry that I embarrass you," I get out.

She laughs genuinely and I feel a little better.

"Katniss, I couldn't be prouder."

"Really?"

"Truly. Why do you think that?"

And then I tell her about the reporters I fear will stake out the house, the salacious stories they'll run on television, even the morning delivery man. "I just wanted you to know."

"Katniss, you're 18 and grown," she says. "That's your business. Make your own decisions and I'm here if you need me."

And just like that I've turned 18. The weather is too warm, too summery for it not to have passed. I blink at my new knowledge and try to remember the day from the blur of all the wake-hunt-and-repeat days.

And then it comes to me, the hint of a memory: a cupcake, a smiling boy, a wrapped box refused vehemently, pills, a day spent in the bed. There were so many of those bad days.

Birthdays shouldn't matter. Except that 18 does. It's the last time you're eligible for the reaping and means you can go work in the mines. Neither of those things apply anymore, except that I'm an adult. I suppose I've been one for a long time, but now I don't want to be. I miss my mother terribly.

I forget it's the day for my session until Dr. Aurelius calls me. He's seen the unedited tape and says I've come a long way since he started treating me. He says I showed poise under duress, and if I kept this up I'd have a clean bill of health in no time.

"Peeta said he loved me in his sleep," I blurt out. It's changing the subject completely, but it's something I have to get off my chest.

"And how do you feel about that?" he asks in his typical clinical matter, like I told him I dreamed of yet another firebomb.

So I treat it like those impossible three words don't make me feel like I'm about to hyperventilate and need to claw my way to a dark closet somewhere. He can't. Not after what I've done to him. He doesn't need to be hurt again. Of course I care about him, but it's not a place I want to go to again, because those words are so interconnected with the Games and death.

"Not angry," I start. "Confused," I say. _Swirling down a whirlpool of dizzying dread,_ I leave out. "I think he was sleeping," I say more to calm myself than anything else. "Or maybe I dreamed it? But it seemed very real," I'm blabbering. "It sounded so comfortable like when my dad used to tell my mom he loved her at night."

"What if he was awake and did mean it? He has said it before."

I'm silent.

"Katniss, is it okay if he loves you?"

* * *

I spend a lot of the next week hunting. The woods are warm and full of life. The trap lines are so full I'm back to handing out food to the people who have come back to rebuild.

A market will be finished in a few weeks and until then the people trade amongst themselves rather than rely on supply boxes filled with canned goods and rations.

Peeta has been spending a lot of time baking lately. He's been experimenting with his recipes and the whole town has taken notice of his delicious bread. He always saves the best loaf for our dinner. It makes me smile to have such fresh, homemade bread with dinner. He doesn't seem to mind having my best game for dinner either.

Peeta is looking better these days, less like the thin boy who lived in hospitals for months. We've both gained some weight back. It seems that taste-testing bread can have its advantages.

When I locate some fragrant rosemary in the woods, I bring it straight to him. He fashions an herbed cheese loaf with it. I have to look around like Buttercup ate it when it disappears a few minutes after it's cool enough to eat. I might even be embarrassed, but Peeta just scribbles something down in a notebook and crafts another loaf.

We plant the rosemary in a pot outside his house. I think that Peeta's family would be proud of what he's done with his make-shift Victor's Village bakery, but I'm hesitant to bring up such sad memories.

At dinner one night Peeta seems pensive and won't look at me. I've spent my days in the woods and am generally quiet in town, so I wonder if it's something I've done or said.

"Katniss, I need to go to the Capitol," he finally says. "Dr. Aurelius wants to run some more tests on me. He saw that tape of my flashback and wants to run a brain scan to make sure I'm all right."

At first, I don't know why he's telling me this. Of course he should go and get whatever help he needs for his flashbacks. We don't even have a healer in District 12. He still looks like he has bad news though.

"And remember how I told you I wanted to rebuild the bakery? It would go a lot faster if I could go to the Capitol to finalize the paperwork and pick out some equipment. I've been spending hours on time phone talking to vendors about ovens and I really just need to go and pick something out."

Then, I realize that I can't come. I'm restricted to District 12 and can't travel. As much as I hate the Capitol, I suddenly want to go. If my travel restrictions were lifted, I'd probably think nothing of a trip to buy stackable bread ovens.

"He wants me to leave Sunday."

* * *

**A/N: Katniss is back :) Thanks to my readers for all the reminders to hurry up and post. I am SLOW and it doesn't help that work is crazy busy. But sometimes I do need a kick in the pants. Oh and I changed my Twitter name, so now I'm ms_scarlett05 if you'd like to follow me. We discuss why I can't write Peeta without craving bread and contemplating a trip to the bakery (at 12:30 a.m.). And I may or may not post a one-shot before the next chapter. We'll see….And Happy Book Birthday to Mockingjay. One year ago Wednesday.**

**300th reviewer gets a kiss from Finnick or Johanna.**


	17. Chapter 17: Absence Makes

**Chapter 17: ****Absence Makes**

**A/N: Rosemary is for remembrance. And the bread is kind of based on the amazing bread at the Macaroni Grill. **

* * *

"Go," I say. "I'll be fine. I probably won't even notice you're gone."

"You'll take your medicine?" He scrunches his right eyebrow in doubt. He looks so concerned.

"I have survived two Hunger Games and a war. I think I can survive for a week without fresh baked bread hand delivered daily." I try to look him in the eye when I say this, instill some confidence in me.

"I'm sure you'll be fine by yourself." The eyebrow remains scrunched. "But I thought you might have more fun if you invited someone over."

"It will be fine. Go." I dismiss this conversation as I take the dinner dishes to the sink.

He follows me with his plate. "Can you at least consider it? For me?"

I know what he's trying to do. I'm much too old for a baby sitter, but he means well and I've had worse suggestions.

Peeta spends the next few days on the phone, making arrangements and doing paperwork. I stay in the woods, where the only conversations I have to have are with uncooperative snare lines.

I help him pack on Saturday. Buttercup sits in the suitcase open on my bed. I zip it up.

"Okay, Peeta, you're all packed. Where do you want me to put this," I yell down to him.

He comes upstairs. "Katniss, how can you be all done packing? There are socks all over the bed." He takes a closer look at the suitcase. "And why is my suitcase moving?"

I unzip it and Buttercup comes screeching out. I double over on the bed laughing.

"That would have been a nice surprise on the train," he rolls his eyes at me and goes off to round up some paperwork and make the last of his phone calls downstairs.

That evening I'm lolled on my bed trying to decide what needs to be done before I can go to sleep. Peeta taps softly on the open door and comes in. He hands me several papers. "This is where I'm staying if you need to get in touch with me. Some nights I'm on the train."

He makes his way slowly over to the bed and sits down next to me. He places a warm hand on the small of my back. With his other hand he pretends to busy himself with the edge of the blanket so I don't see the sadness etched all over his face. Try as he might, he can't conceal it.

"It's just a week." I offer him a half smile. "Dr. Aurelius will work his magic on you. You'll remember everything, he'll erase all your altered memories and you'll come back with ovens so fancy I'm sure I won't see you for weeks."

He's staring at the ceiling. "If only that were true—the memories part." He sounds so far away when he says this.

"Any memories you want to talk about tonight?" I ask. Sometimes it's too painful so I don't often ask him this.

"What's your favorite memory of the Capitol? Something happy."

I immediately think about Cinna and all of his gorgeous clothes. It's only a partially happy memory, though. I think of roof top picnics and nights spent together. I think of all the amazing food.

I sit up cross-legged in the bed so I can face him. "One time for lunch we had a pot of chocolate that you could dip things in," I tell him. I'm not sure it's my happiest memory, but it's safe. Hopefully it won't lead to tears. "I liked it so much we had to order seconds."

"Chocolate, huh?" he pokes my stomach. Enough of those worry lines have vanished that he appears to be smirking at me.

* * *

Before we leave my house in the morning, I ask for his arm. I'm afraid that if I say anything it will be the wrong thing, that I'll start to sob, that I'll make this sadder than it has to be. So I instead I write.

I take a black marker and trace a series of letters on the soft skin on the underside of his forearm. My hand isn't as steady as his. With one hand I hold onto him, and the other I slowly form the four words.

It's not the phrase I know he longs to hear, but it's what I need to say. I tell him he can look when he's on the train. There's some comfort that my words will be with him, even when I can't.

We've decided against anything that would end up on TV should a camera be lurking. Peeta goes to board the train, but pauses to take my hands. "Don't miss my bread too much."

"Please be safe," are my last words to him. I say it sincerely, recalling all too many injuries he's endured there.

The nightmares come with an unexpected intensity that night. It's as if all the weeks of restful sleep and unnerving bad dreams saved their worst terrors for this night. All of the deaths I've witnessed replay in my head more gruesome than the originals. And Peeta, I see him die so many times: train accidents, electrocutions, sniper fire, being speared, stabbed—it's too much. I pace the house at 4 in the morning. I'm not going back to sleep.

I crouch in my closet until barely before dawn. I get my bow and intend to go hunting. Only the images seared into my brain are too real and I have trouble getting out the door. I get as far as the train station and try to tune out the fiery crashes my mind conjures.

I try not to look at the depot or the remains of razed buildings not yet cleared away. In the woods, I'm too unfocused to even follow the squirrels dashing between high above branches.

After an unproductive day, I drop my hunting bag in the closet. The house seems achingly quiet. There's no one at the table to share my day with. I decide against calling my mother. It's not a therapy day. There's no Madge to go visit.

The sun has gone down by now, but it's not too late to go visit one of my neighbors. He's not as drunk as he usually is, but is still far from sober.

"Where's the boy?" he asks when I flop down in one of his chairs.

"Off to get his brain scanned in the Capitol," I say as aloofly as possible, maybe to even feign offense that he thinks we're a package deal these days.

"That so?" Haymitch tilts his bottle toward me. I decline. But I have second thoughts. He's already tipped his head back, so I just stare at the table covered in plates that are starting to attract tiny black flies.

I suppose I could do his dishes, tidy up under the pretense of helping out. Instead I stay in my chair waiting for the unwanted advice he always doles out.

He eyes me cautiously. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," I spit out too quickly. "They just want to make sure he's still doing okay," I say with my eyes on my lap.

"You didn't do anything?" he intones. It's an accusation. That I didn't do enough. That I wasn't nice enough. That I'm not what Peeta needs.

"It's because of that TV segment." The one that Haymitch slept through. "They don't want his flashbacks to get worse."

"So, you're saying you didn't drive that boy away? Make him go?"

"Nope." I've been far from perfect, but I can be certain I didn't drive him away. I reach for the bottom of my braid as I wait for the next round of claims of my heartlessness.

"If you say so," he stumbles out of the chair and heads to the kitchen. "I'll make us dinner, sweetheart," he offers, disrupting my thoughts of how my evening would usually be spent.

I brace my hand on the seat of the chair to keep from falling out. His offer seems genuine enough. Immediately I get visions of exploding stew pots, pasta alla vodka, minus the tomatoes, and perfectly good rabbit meat charred to oblivion.

"You don't have to do that," I counter. "Maybe I can." I start looking around his kitchen to see what exactly he has: dusty cans of vegetables, a pantry filled with various colors of glass bottles and the remnants of Plutarch's unwanted gift basket.

"I got it," he says.

* * *

In the morning, I decide that I can't face the woods or the town today, so cleaning the house becomes my top priority. I empty out all the cabinets to organize and discard anything that's spoiled.

I'm sitting in the middle of a fort-like stack of pots pulled out from cabinets and a surplus of silver cans of potatoes when the phone ringing brings me back from my boredom.

"Katniss, is everything ok? They said you called." Peeta sounds winded, like he ran to the phone.

He thinks it was an emergency when I called a few hours ago to escape the silence. I briefly consider making something up, but that's no good.

"Hi, Peeta. I was just checking on you. Making sure they're keeping you safe."

He lets out an audible breath of air. "I thought something was wrong."

"No."

"Glad to hear it."

I resist the urge to say anything about the quiet house or nightmares. "So, what did you get on your hunt today?" he asks. My silence betrays me.

There, staring at me, Delly's phone number is taped to the wall, along with a note that she wants to come visit.

I accept that he could be right and dial each digit on the handwritten note.

Bags already packed, she's expecting my call. I have a feeling someone's been plotting, making plans I didn't know about. I should be used to it by now. This plan doesn't involve muttations, artillery fire or bombs, so I go with it.

Too frightened to fall asleep, I stay up most of the night and finish organizing the cabinets. I also start on cleaning the farthest bedroom from mine. I don't think it's ever been used but I make sure the bedding is fresh and the bathroom stocked. In the morning, I rest on the couch and get up only to meet the train.

_This will be fun,_ I try to convince myself. She's so upbeat and sees the best in everything. I could use some of that.

At the train station at the designated time, I catch sight of Delly's yellow hair. It's still pulled back in its District 13 braid. She has on traveling clothes; not the grey uniforms, but she still looks unnaturally pale.

She greets me with an ebullient hug. I use my best manners not to pull away from the unfamiliar touch. We grew up together and I owe her so much for helping Peeta. She can have a hug.

"Katniss! It's so good to be home. This is the first time I've been back," she exclaims as we walk towards Victors Village.

"I'm so excited about our visit. I get to be home—HOME—that's great. And I get to spend time with you. I didn't see much of you in 13 and we didn't spend too much time with you growing up, so this is so wonderful. Peeta's said so much about you and I just adored you on the Games. This is going to be so fun."

Delly's talked almost nonstop since I picked her up. This will certainly solve my quiet house problem. I show Delly to her room and help her with her bags.

"So first thing," I say, "we need to get some color in your cheeks. How about a walk? I can show you what's going on."

In the town I show her all the shops being rebuilt. We check out the new Hall of Records going up. It's the new version of the Justice Building. It's a brick building—large but not grandiose. I'm thrilled to hear that Delly is studying for a position there. Her job will be a lot of paperwork and permits, but it's a respected position. She says she'll move back to 12 when her job starts in a few months.

Delly tells me the building will also house a security division, a court, ballroom for district-wide celebrations and offices for officials elected by the districts—not appointed by the now-overthrown Capitol. She explains the upcoming elections to me.

"So any District 12 resident can try to be the new version of our mayor?" I ask.

"There are some restrictions, but the point is that we get to choose," Delly answers.

"So Haymitch could be mayor?" I laugh too hard at my own joke, thinking of Haymitch's infamous nosedive and trademark stumbling. He's not exactly the picture of professional leadership.

Delly attempts what I think is supposed to be a scowl.

Of course, Haymitch is much more calculating than most give him credit for. He was instrumental in the rebellion and for that he commands respect. Though some part of me wonders if his first act as mayor would be to change the district's commodity from coal to white liquor.

She fills me in on the crew that will be working with her, helping with the elections, supervising the rebuilding and so on. The prospect of life without Peacekeepers, tesserae and whippings in the square is heartening, but Delly tends to sugarcoat things so I have to wonder what it's really going to be like.

We walk to the meadow and I make a quick mention of the grave and shift the subject to Buttercup, who seems to be trailing us today. I take her through the woods and even briefly show her the clearing with all the flowers.

"I've missed all of this." Delly falls into the grass like she's making a snow angel. "The sun. The grass. Even the bugs," she says flicking a small insect off her arm. I lay down a few feet away and we watch the clouds.

When our stomachs start to rumble we head to my house and Delly helps me make dinner. She insists it's good for her because she needs to get used to cooking for herself before leaving District 13

I show her the bread Peeta has left us and she picks out a long crusty loaf that will go well with the casserole she's making.

At dinner Delly tells me the news from 13 and gives me a softened version of the district's reactions to their president's televised execution. "Are you doing better?" she asks.

I assure her that I'm working on it. Her question is sincere so I don't take the offense that I normally might.

After dinner she brings out a stack of books and puts them on the table. "I hope you don't mind. I have exams soon."

When she gives up on studying permit requirements, she regales me with stories from Peeta's childhood: how his older brother knocked his first tooth out when they were wrestling, the time he rescued her after she fell into the pig's muddy pen retrieving her lost hair ribbon, even his elaborately painted pet rock named Rhubarb. The stories are so cute they actually make me sad.

"He's doing so much better now," she assures me. "He remembers. I talked to him just a few days ago and he was telling me how he remembered how I forced him to play hopscotch and his brothers made fun of him."

"Thank you, Delly," I squeeze her hand, "for helping him." Peeta would have made some elaborate speech but I think that says it all.

She smiles. "You help more than you know."

It's about time for bed when Peeta calls and asks how my day was. "Hold on."

I cover the receiver and motion Delly to the phone.

"Hello?"

She giggles and tells him all about our day.

I get the phone back. "It sounds like you had a fun day,"

"Yeah. I think company was a good idea."

"Katniss, one last thing. They're making me film a TV segment tomorrow. It's supposed to be about bread but I know they'll ask me about us."

He can't see my scowl over the telephone.

"What should I say?"

"As little as possible."

"I'll try. But I don't even know what to say. Do I say we're friends? Are we even a couple? Or as you just the girl whose house I sleep over at practically every night?"

He's cross with me now. I can hear it in his voice.

I've been avoiding this conversation for too long. "Don't say anything."

* * *

Buttercup stays affixed to Delly's ankles as she comes downstairs in the morning. She looks far from rested but says nothing about any noise that may have been coming from my end of the house. She makes breakfast and when the dishes are cleared away, cracks open one of her large textbooks.

All that studying can't be fun, so I tempt her with the suggestion that Peeta will be on television soon. She closes the book without a second thought and flounces over to the couch.

Towards the end of a morning talk show a cooking segment is introduced. Peeta stands in an ornate kitchen with tan tiles, lots of tall stone arches and more ovens than I've ever seen in one place. He has on a crisp white apron. His bangs are stacked on his forehead to best conceal his scars.

"We're here today chatting with Peeta Mellark, District 12 victor and one of our favorite guys," a male TV host with unnaturally angular eyebrows begins. "So Peeta, what have you been up to since the revolution."

"I've been doing a lot of baking so I thought I'd come show you how to make some bread."

"You're such a hero to so many people, why baking?" the host leans in.

Peeta shrugs. "It's what I've always done. I was making rolls when I was three."

"That's right I remember that's what you did before the games… But you could do anything now—paint, be on TV."

"Well, I get plenty of time in front of the camera, and I can paint in my spare time. Why don't you try one of my newest recipes," he charms the host, "and if it's really that bad…." Peeta throws his hands up and gets a few laughs.

Peeta shows the host how to knead the pale blob of dough on the counter. The host doesn't seem to want to get flour on his three-piece suit and tries to knead the dough at arms length with his fingertips. "Oh, you're going to have to do better than that," Peeta says as he takes the dough, pushing it down into the anchor's palm and sending specks of flour flying onto his dark jacket. The audience loves it.

The dough goes into a mixer with so many buttons it could only come from the Capitol. "And now, I like to use a stone fireplace so that's where we're going to bake the bread." Peeta uses a long wooden fork to put the round loaf in the oven. "Can't bake bread without some sort of flame," he says, looking directly into the camera.

Out of another oven, Peeta removes a perfectly done loaf of round bread. "Try this."

The TV host samples a corner of the bread. "Amazing."

"I can't take all the credit for this one though, it's Katniss' recipe," he smiles. "Cheese and rosemary."

The host goes in for the kill. "How is Katniss these days? I remember seeing you two looking pretty cozy together not too long ago."

If I didn't know him better I might have missed it, but his cool composure breaks for the smallest instant as he realizes the mistake. He rights it, almost immediately, again looking completely unfazed. "Good."

"We've noticed you're traveling alone today." The shot shifts to a group of teenage girls giggling in the audience. "Everything ok?"

"Katniss is restricted to District 12."

The host grimaces. "Of course."

The host takes on a more serious tone. "A year ago you were secretly married. We have to know what's going on now?"

"Well, you see I don't remember that." Peeta lowers his eyes, frowns. "I have a medical condition—caused by the war. I can't remember a of things from the last two years."

He shakes his head. "That is awful."

"So that's why I've been spending so much time baking."

"Well they say the way to a woman's heart is through her stomach," the host tries. "So any more kisses from the Mockingjay?

"Oh, I don't kiss and tell," Peeta says in a sly, almost arrogant tone. He has the audience eating out of his flour-covered hands. "I'm actually visiting the Capitol on a business trip to get supplies for the bakery I plan to open in District 12 this fall. I'm going make specialty breads, cookies and I'm thinking about doing wedding cakes."

Mr. Eyebrows opens his mouth to pose another question but the segment is out of time.

Watching Peeta on TV still seems strange to me. I've always been right there with him, holding his hand when he's done. Even though he's not close enough to touch, it is nice to see that he's okay, and still as charming as ever.

"He loves you," Delly says in a hushed voice.

It's not what I was expecting to hear. Still it's not something I'm totally unprepared for. The old Katniss would have said: "I know." But, instead I wonder how he could love me with all of his altered memories and my flaws and why I would even deserve it.

I should pretend I didn't hear. But instead I throw my hands up in the air and fight back tears. "I don't know what to do!"

Delly leans back into the air chair and closes her eyes like she's happily dreaming. After several moments she snaps back up. "You need a walk," she insists and practically shoos me out of my own house.

"And by you, I mean me." She hooks my elbow and laughs as we walk into the warm sunlight. She gives off such intense happiness that I can't but pick up my step as I'm dragged away from any lingering thoughts of boys and words I don't quite want to hear.

Eventually I take the lead and decide it's prime time to gather for tonight's dinner. Since we're already out, it only makes sense.

Delly can't seem to stop clapping and laughing as she gathers greens and pulls at the onions' grass-life leaves.

"Hunting with Katniss Everdeen," she beams. "I'm not sure I ever thought I'd be doing that. I always admired how you gathered food—and here we are. You're showing me what to do."

I nod and return to wordlessly poking at the earth, wishing Delly would follow my lead and take a break from talking for a few minutes.

When I was little I used to make a game of finding the biggest onion I could. I would always run to show it off to my father. Today I make a game of digging the biggest onion in the clearing. I dig more than enough for tonight's dinner, but they'll store.

A soft looking patch of grass seems to be calling my name so I take a break. Delly comes and sits cross-legged a few feet away.

"I'm a good listener," she says timidly. "I heard too many of Peeta's stories to runaway or judge you."

So she knows all of those awful things that I want to know, but don't really want to know at the same time. "Poor Peeta," I choke out before my mind runs away with some dark recollection.

"I think he's doing better," she offers. "He's not that angry, violent person he was in 13. He seems calmer now, more like the sweet boy that used to draw me pictures. He's figuring things out and he's much less frustrated."

Delly's optimism makes it a lot more difficult to be ridden by guilt. And she's right. He is getting better, but that's not the problem. The problem is those three words he said to me, and what's happened to people I say those words to. I care about him, I truly and deeply do. But I'm afraid to do more than that. I'm terrified of the intense bond fate and hardship has forged between us these last two years.

"He broke my heart," I whisper, half hoping she doesn't hear. It's the first time I've said it aloud and I know it's true.

Losing my father cut deep into me, Peeta's capture and hijacking ripped the wound back wide open and Prim's death splintered the remnants into so many razor sharp shards that I don't think it could ever be mended.

I feel exposed and relieved at the same time.

"We're all healing, Katniss," Delly matches my hushed tone. "It's okay."

* * *

Confused, I go to bed early that night. Delly stays up and watches TV. I think I hear comments about rosemary and bakeries coming through the TV speakers.

The nightmares come and I take refuge in the basement—as far away from my company's room as possible. I'm awake so I go ahead and fold the laundry, lingering on a green shirt of Peeta's. At some point over the last months, the laundry became a joint task. Tonight it makes me the tiniest bit sad.

Though it's not yet dawn, I leave a note for Delly and go out hunting.

By mid-morning I've reset the snares I've neglected for too long. The rabbits are out in force and I put a few of them in my game bag. I'm not sure Delly is squeamish so I clean the rabbits in the woods, wrap them in large leaves and take a few home leaving most for Sae.

Delly's buried in her books that evening and I'm trying to be good company. I bring her a snack; keep Buttercup from shredding her paper. When it's almost time for bed I change into green shirt that's really too big on me and lounge on the couch in the living room. I hear the door open. It's probably Haymitch looking for dinner or Sae checking on me. I make no effort to get up.

"Oh!" Delly squeals.

Before I can turn to see what caused the outburst, two hands touch my face and familiar lips brush my forehead, nose, lips. "I'm home," he breathes. "Caught the 4 a.m. train to get here tonight."

Peeta wasn't supposed to be home until late tomorrow. I'm not sure this is happening, but the warmth I feel on my mouth and spreading through my limbs seems too real to be a dream. I lose myself in his kisses; get goose bumps down my arms and only pull away to catch my breath.

Delly clears her throat and it's back to reality. "I see you guys are getting along together better than the last time I saw you."

My cheeks flush. I give a delirious smile and make room for Peeta on the couch.

"It helps that I haven't tried to kill her in a while," Peeta says. It seems Plutarch's bad jokes have rubbed off.

"Peeta, I told you she'd come around. And I told you that you'd remember," Delly says sincerely. "Well, I'm glad. I was always rooting for you."

"Thank you, Delly," Peeta says. "And I have a surprise for both of you ladies."

Peeta hands me a large red box, and pulls out a similar yellow box for Delly. The room is filled with crinkling of plastic being unwrapped. I have an assortment of all shapes and colors of chocolate. I bite into a round piece with filling so light it's almost a liquid.

Delly's overjoyed. I'm sure chocolate isn't something they have a lot of in 13.

Peeta helps himself to my chocolates and tells Delly all about his trip to the Capitol. She's never been and wants to hear every detail. He tells her how the Capitol people have decided that whiskers and body animal body modifications aren't fashionable anymore. He goes on about the latest in oven technology and mixers that fluff, fold, grind, strain and juice.

I'm content to have him home with me. It feels right. As much as I hated this house before, it's become comfortable with Peeta around. I haven't been back to the Seam house in awhile—I don't think I could face it. It's too painful and not home anymore.

"Katniss, why don't you go to bed?" Peeta asks. Somewhere between mentions of sourdough and rye I must have dozed off.

I mumble something and head towards the stairs.

"It's late," Delly agrees. "Well good night, I guess Katniss, Peeta," Delly says, looking at the front door.

Peeta, however, does not walk in the direction she expects. "See you in the morning." Peeta closes the door to my bedroom behind us.

"So scandalous," I tease him as I'm wrapped in hugs. Besides, Delly is probably the last to know about our arrangement. Everyone else knows, practically everyone in District 12, even the deliveryman. On some level I care or I wouldn't be thinking about it, but tonight I won't care.

"I missed you."

I match his kiss with a newfound energy and a week's worth of longing. In his arms, I forget, if only for a moment, all the reasons to be sad. And the room is spinning…A pulse begins in my temple and I'm back in the District 13 hospital running to him.

"Katniss, you're shaking. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I bush it off. I don't have to feel that weight in my chest. He's back. He's safe. He's here.

And I'm in my room backed against the bedroom door with a boy I've thought of entirely too much this week. "You make my head spin," I smile at him.

"Do I?" he teases. "Well you…." He practically tosses me on the bed and we're kissing. It's hot and desperate. "I missed you," he sighs as his mouth finds the innermost tip of my earlobe. "I missed you," he repeats as he works down my neck. "I missed you," he says kissing the top of my shoulder before returning to lock onto my lips. This feels so different from our usual kisses and suddenly and I wonder if he wants more than kisses and caresses tonight.

_This is it,_ I gulp. All of those moments in the dark, the hands, the breathless fumbling so carefully put to a halt; it's going to happen. I try and mask my uncertainty and concentrate on his mouth. I did miss him. I need him.

I draw my body into his so that there's no space between us. I can feel his belt buckle press against my stomach, his thumping heart against mine. And when I feel like I can't breathe anymore, he's the one who pulls away gasping for air.

Instead of resuming the frantic pace, he stops and trails a finger around my cheek and rests his hand on my chin. "I have so much to tell you." He chastely kisses my forehead. "But not tonight."

I put my head on his chest and settle in with him. He smells like the floral soap on the train, cinnamon and faintly of chocolate.

"I like having you home," I confess. Through the moonlight I can still faintly see "Come home to me" scrawled in my handwriting on his arm.

He strokes a lock of hair on my neck, and I swear I can feel a current tingle all the way down to my toes. "I like being home."

And in that short conversation, it's officially settled. This is home. My home. His home. Home.

I never asked. He never brought it up. It started out simply enough, one of his shirts absently folded in with mine. Soon enough, he had a drawer, half a dresser—his pills in my medicine cabinet. There was no one moment—just a gradual shift from shared dinners to the inevitable nights together.

"Sweet dreams," I whisper as he doses off.

He half-whispers his next three words, I hear them and decide not be afraid. It's time to heal.

* * *

I roll over to drape my hand on Peeta's chest, but my hand grazes the sheet instead. Last night was a dream. He didn't come home. He's still in the Capitol. Maybe he'll never come back. I throw the blanket back over my head. I'll stay in bed today. I can't deal with it.

Then I hear his laugh. Hope.

It's enough to help right my sleep-addled head.

Downstairs, a girl laughs. He really did come home early. I grab a comb and attempt to make my mane look presentable, throw a robe over the borrowed shirt and head towards the muffled voices.

Delly and Peeta sit at the kitchen table locked in conversation. Peeta wears a serious look on his face and Delly is positively beaming. I think she's talking about her new job—but they immediately stop when I enter the room. I'm used to it and sit down like I didn't notice.

"Hey Katniss, did you sleep better last night?" Delly asks.

"Yes," I say with relief in my voice. "I bet you finally got some sleep, too."

Peeta looks me in the eyes. "No nightmares?" I shake my head.

"Well, that's wonderful. I was so worried about her," Delly says.

Over breakfast Delly makes me sound like an excellent host as she recounts the apparently fun-filled days we spent touring the town and picking flowers. She raves about the patch of lady slippers I showed her.

She says she'll see us as soon as she can when she comes back for her job and that her brother is overseeing their house being rebuilt.

"Any time you need anything, let us know," Peeta says. He goes off to start baking some complicated new recipe he learned on his trip so I help Delly with her bags to the train station.

At the loading platform, Delly starts to say something, "Peeta," but then she stops herself and giggles. "I'm so happy for you," she gushes. She boards the train and it pulls away from the station.


	18. Chapter 18: Secrets

**Chapter 18. Secrets**

* * *

I'm sitting on a stool in Peeta's kitchen watching him roll out a piecrust. With my elbows on the counter and face in my hands, I ask: "So what did you have to tell me?"

He leans in like he has a secret too delicious to let anyone but me know. There's no one here but us so I wonder if he's just feeling nostalgic. But instead of clandestine messages whispered in my ears, it's the wet smacking noise of a kiss on my cheek. "That you're beautiful."

My mouth tightens to one side. "Especially when you're helping me bake," he adds poking the tip of my nose, smudging it with the white powder.

"Don't make me use this," I hold up a fork, poised to score his perfectly good crust.

Peeta deftly slides the dough away from me, keeping his hands off of my face.

"The doctor says I'm doing good and that all the test results showed improvement." He switches to his business voice. "My memories are coming back." He switches modes. "And I'm supposed to thank a certain Miss Everdeen for that."

I ignore the compliment. "What about…you getting angry?" I scrape together all the tact I have to phrase it that way. I want to know if he's cured of throwing people around, the desire to wrap his scarred hands around my throat.

"That area of my brain looked a lot cleaner than when we scanned it in 13 or even when I first showed up in the Capitol. I'm hoping I'm better. Now that I'm home I certainly don't feel as angry. Dr. A doesn't think the seizures are going away though. We're just going to try to keep them in check. Yearly check ups. And call or go in if they get worse."

"What about the nightmares?"

"I had them before…." He peers at me like I'm the only person in the world who can ever truly understand. Bashfully, he turns his eyelashes down to his shoes. "They're just worse now. More violent, Capitol-created, I think the doctor is going to work on a drug for it." He pauses.

I'm not a fan of the seizures, but have learned to live with them. The nightmares I've written off as inevitable. "What about the tracker jackers?"

He gulps. "Do you know where the nests are in the District? We should probably see about having them sprayed."

I tell him that I know where some are, but I can go look for others. I'm not too keen on this as I've already had so much poison in my system. But there seems to be something he's not telling me, and it makes me restless. My foot taps against the stool.

I feel like I need to be outside, alive, doing something. I rise to leave, with no real plans on going anywhere. Peeta offers to come with me, suggesting we check on the space for his bakery in town. I just want to be moving, so I agree.

"So how did you end up forced into that TV segment?" I'm curious. We're moving again and I feel better surrounded by birdcalls and the hum of summer insects.

He groans. It's a full-body effort. "I went shopping in the Capitol. I was in that store the gift boxes came from. I was looking at handheld mixers and one of the employees recognized me. The owner happens to be one of Plutarch's friends and thought he'd sent me. He called Plutarch to thank him, he had always wanted to meet me, and Plutarch didn't realize I was in town. So they kind of forced me into doing that segment. Believe me, I talked them down from a tell-all."

"I told you your weakness for beautiful things would be your undoing," I play.

His look screams _don't remind me._

"Oh and the owner of the store adored me," he adds. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets. "He wants me to do a TV spot for him."

This takes me by surprise—but only a little. I don't know when our world isn't going to be a fishbowl anymore, but if Plutarch has his way not any time soon.

"Are you going to do it?" I scoff at the prospect of more cameras. The district, even with the dull roars of nearby construction, is more pleasant without constant refrains of "Katniss, Peeta. Over here."

"Probably not," says Peeta. "But if I'm forced, it would certainly be better than endorsing tongue earrings or feathered men's blazers."

At that image I laugh. It feels good to laugh—especially at the ridiculousness of the Capitol.

All of this makes me wonder what shopping in the Capitol is like. I'm sure it's quite different from the Hob, the market or the boxes of supplies that are shipped in on the trains. I make Peeta tell me all about the store: blankets of every color and size, some that heat themselves up, some that vibrate to wake you up at a certain time; machines that make an entire dinner for you, towels that warm up at the sound of your voice—the list goes on.

We reached the bakery minutes ago and now stand in the middle of the newly framed walls. From here, it just looks like any other building going up: struts, joists, flooring. Everything is the same tan and smells like sawdust.

It will be larger than his family's bakery. He points out where the bread ovens are going to go and where the mixers for cakes and dough will be located. There will be a large window to show off the cakes. Prim would have liked that. I squeeze his hand when I think of Prim.

"My sister liked to walk by the bakery to admire your handiwork," I tell him shyly.

"It was my favorite part," he glances to the window. "Not that I would admit that to my brothers."

His brothers. Here I've been thinking about losing my one sister, he lost two brothers and his parents. This is his family's bakery. They're all gone, yet he seems so upbeat as he inspects the progress.

It's really quite remarkable how quickly buildings can go up. Everything seems to be in order, and with my restless stint over we return home to find a package on the doorstep. It's from the store Peeta just visited.

"They have got to stop sending us stuff!" I yell. "Are they trying to bribe us? I hate the Capitol! They can keep their musical bath bubbles and glow-in-the-dark mouthwash."

"Katniss," Peeta soothes. "One. The Capitol isn't the enemy any more. Two. Why don't you open the box before you decide you hate it."

He's right of course. I count in my head and decide a small box isn't worth the energy. Inside the overabundance of tissue packing is a tea set so exquisite my mother would insist on putting it in the china cabinet. It's light green with forest scenes painted around the bottom of the cups and saucers.

"We can't accept this."

"I bought it, Katniss," Peeta reveals. "I felt bad for breaking one of your tea cups a few weeks back."

I had forgotten about the incident. Peeta had a seizure, a very small one, at breakfast about two weeks ago. His hand spasms broke the teacup. I was just relieved he didn't cut himself on the jagged edge of the cup.

"Ok, but no more presents." I'm stern.

* * *

I'm startled by a knock on the door early in the morning, as I'm about to go out. A team of people in baggy white hazard suits stands on my doorstep. Not the white peacekeepers uniform, these uniforms even have a mesh protection over the eyes.

"Miss Everdeen?"

They don't appear to be armed, so if for no other reason than curiosity, I open the door.

"Yes?"

"We're here to spray for tracker jackers, can you show us wear to spray?"

I hadn't expected them so fast. I would have searched out all the nests in 12 so I'm not prepared.

"We have instructions to spray the entire village, then the town center. After that we'll spray where you tell us," the man closest to me says.

He hands me a smaller version of his own suit. "We'll meet you in town in 20 minutes."

Something isn't right. I know there's something Peeta's not telling me, so I can't ask him. Haymitch is oblivious these days. Because there's no one else I call Dr. Aurelius; his receptionist answers. I stammer something about tracker jackers and she puts me right through.

"Ah, yes," he says when I've explained it to him. "They're supposed to spray before Peeta gets home from his travels. They were supposed to phone you to set it up." His voice breaks from its usual even monotone, to an annoyed pitch.

"Peeta's at his house baking," I stammer, not really understanding what's going on with the strangers on my doorstep.

A pause on the line lets me know this wasn't what he was expecting.

"He's not supposed to be in District 12 until all the muttation insects are gone." The always-calm doctor seems ruffled.

"Katniss, because of the extreme amount of tracker jacker poison he's been exposed to I'm afraid there might be dire consequences if he's ever stung again. His very violent reaction from seeing a tracker jacker was enough to make me bring him in for testing. And after the results on those tests, I advised him not to return home until the district was sprayed."

"He didn't tell me that."

"Well just make sure that every nest gets sprayed—especially places like your houses, his bakery, anywhere he might go. I think it's a real possibility that if he's ever stung again it could completely reset the hijacking. He could return to where he was, undoing all of his progress, or he could be reset like nothing ever happened—though I think that's unlikely. Katniss, another sting could also be enough to stop his heart."

Too many horrible images fill my head at once: his heart stopping, tracker jacker stings, that angry shell the rescue party brought back to 13.

"So today we just need to make sure there are no tracker jackers in 12?"

"Yes. And keep Peeta away from it all. He shouldn't be there in the first place."

The doctor gives me a few more specifics and warns me to be careful as well.

My first stop is Haymitch's and I'm in luck because he hasn't gone to bed yet. He's thumbing through a catalog. I explain what I want and he follows me to Peeta.

I barge in, letting the door clang as loudly as I can manage. I'm burning with anger. "I've brought you a babysitter. Don't you dare leave this house today."

"Katniss, what is going on?" His voice is hushed innocence in stark contrast to my irate scream.

"Oh, that's right, you're not even supposed to be in 12 right now."

His secret is out.

"I didn't want you to be alone, not this week." He tries to sway me. No matter how good his argument is I won't be sucked in.

Only then does it hit me that it's a particularly unfortunate week in July. It's why he refused to leave my side yesterday, insisted he needed help baking. But I don't have time for that not today. I shake my head. "I'm fine. Actually I have something to deal with."

I leave him in Haymitch's hands. Delly would be a more pleasant baby sitter, but he deserves the foul-smelling company of our mentor. "Stay. Or else." I threaten him and I really mean it this time. I am not playing nice.

I don my outrageous insect-spraying gear and it's time to hunt. The crew has already sprayed the town's center. They found three nests, mostly on bombed out buildings overdue for demolition. Because Peeta is inside, they spray Victor's Village next. They use an odorless gas that kills the tracker-jackers but no other bees or wasps. The gas kills them almost instantly so they can't fly very far or find a new place to nest. The suits protect from the stings, which comes in handy because the tracker jacker bodies have to be collected in an airtight container to be disposed of later. I don't volunteer for that task. The only nest in Victor's Village is on a basement ledge behind Haymitch's house. I sneak a look in Peeta's house when we walk by. He's pacing the living room, under the watchful eye of a man whose snores I could hear before I ever set foot on the porch.

The group walks through the Seam and finds that nests have sprung up on some of the abandoned houses. I close my eyes when we walk by my house and go out of my way to avoid walking by the houses of old friends.

It takes hours to cover the meadow and the woods. I try to remember every nest I've ever avoided while hunting out here. I even take them to the lake in case I ever do teach Peeta how to swim. When we've covered all of District 12 that's possible the team tells me to call them if I ever see another nest. They leave late in the evening and I stop in to tell a Haymitch-less Peeta that he's released from time out.

I lock myself in the bathroom and fill the tub with enough bubbles to fill a bottomless lake. The blue-tinted suds billow precariously over the lip of white tub. They threaten to spill over, but they just pile taller, fizzing as they collapse into the water.

One ankles dangles in the warm water as I debate braving the froth. Finally, I sink in, weightless from the day's otherwise pressing worries.

All I want is to be left alone. And to turn the tips of fingers and toes to squishy pink prunes.

It's quiet in the water. I can think. Clear my head. The only sounds are the bubbles melting into the water.

But underneath it, I can hear footsteps echoing closer to my oasis.

"Go away, Peeta," I grumble when he knocks.

"I didn't want you to worry." His sincerity is grating.

I drop to the bottom of the tub, ignoring the interruption and trying to concentrate instead on the warm water and the way my hair snakes above my face. If I stay here long enough, he'll go away.

This, however, only intensifies the sound of his almost frantic jangling of the doorknob.

Not even bothering to towel off, I throw on a robe, drenching the floor with water.

"You have to carry an emergency shot with you for the rest of your life," I rage. "It's probably something you should have told me." I stomp to the door and furl it open.

He matches my fury with shame, head held down with eyes that beg forgiveness.

"You can't do that to me!" I shake off the spell he's casting. "I—," my voice catches.

He takes a step towards me, as if to pat my arm. Only he never makes it.

His feet fly forward, unsteady on the water-soaked tile. I go down with him.

It starts somewhere in my stomach, and turns into a chuckle that—try as I might—I can't clamp my mouth closed tight enough to keep in. It turns into an uncontrollable laugh. Peeta recovers from having the wind knocked out and him and joins in.

So there we are, wet and sprawled on the bathroom floor, choking on laughter. I sigh and let myself relax.

He picks that moment to come in for a kiss. His lips brush against mine as I hesitate.

It's too damn difficult to stay mad at him anyway.

My heart speeds up. "Don't you ever keep things like that from me," I tell him when a piece of my wet hair gets in his mouth. It's hard to stay on subject, though. My robe is showing a bit more than it should on top, and he adjusts it. My cheeks flame until I remember I'm supposed to be mad at him.

He gulps and shakes his head. "It was stupid….I didn't want you worrying….I was going to tell you. I won't."

And apparently I have Peeta Mellark tongue-tied.

"You can't," I say, shaking my head. "You just can't get sick." What would I do if he did?

"I need you." I look into those eyes, hoping he gets the enormity of what I'm saying. It's not something I easily admit.

I don't want to be the one to blink first in this staring contest. It's like he's peering into the nothingness inside me. Like he can see what an unfeeling sham I am. See the pain. The want.

Finally, I blink.

"You what?" His eyes crinkle. He's heard what I said but seems to be having difficulty with it.

"I need you," I mumble towards the wet sand-colored tiles. I brace myself up from our heap and sit with my back against the white tub. It's not an overly romantic declaration, but rather a simple statement of fact.

"Need?" Peeta toys with the word. He smiles like it's some genius joke whose punch line he just now got.

"I _need_ you too." He bumps my foot with his good one.

We've always talked in code, but this means he gets it.

I stare at our feet and the cabinets behind them.

"You have no idea how much I _need _you. I _need _you so much." He leans in cups my chin for emphasis. I was talking survival—that I simply wouldn't be sitting here without him. But he's not talking fresh water, food and a roof over his head. "I _need _you more every day."

He runs his nose up the edge of cheek.

"More than need." He waits until he's right next to my ear. "I love you."

No more code. And this time I'm not protected by the cover of sheets or darkness. The light streaming in from the window doesn't make it seem like any less of dream, a tarnished memory from a different time.

_It will be okay. It will be okay. It will be okay._ I chant this in my head.

"Okay," I swallow, downcast eyes focused on the hem of the long white bathrobe.

Seconds go by as I focus on my breathing.

"You don't have to say it back. I didn't expect you to," he says with more warmth than he ought to. "I love you. There. That's enough for me."

He flexes his toes like he's about to get up. I give into temptation and glance at him. He's waiting for a reaction. Something. More than me staring at my toenails. One confession is all he's getting out of me today.

He places his hands palms down on the floor, about to push up.

"Wait."

So I move in. At first, his lips are soft, malleable, taking any direction I give. Then it's back to that intense I-can't-get-enough-air kissing that's happening more and more frequently lately.

I'm in his lap now, on top of him as we both tug closer. "Don't stop," I sigh at the same time he pants, "I need to go."

I have the advantage. He can't get up. I wrap my hands around the nape of his neck, keeping him here.

I can't kiss him hard enough. All that anger I had for him a few minutes has turned into something equally intense. It's fire blazing through my veins and I don't know what else to do.

The bathroom is still sticky hot. The air is swollen with moisture and I can feel the sweat beading under my robe. I pull on the bottom of his shirt; tug it over his head.

_Helping,_ I mouth.

I head straight for a piece of pink, scarred flesh on his chest. I kiss it and move on to the intersection of his skin grafts. But kiss isn't the right word. It's wet and sloppy. Something about that patchwork of scars beckons me. Every new line of scar begs to be kissed into oblivion.

His fingers lurk on the edge of my robe. With a furtive glance he asks for permission.

He traces the robe's collar, slipping it down so the top of my shoulder is exposed. He starts there, gradually kissing lower, hands carefully exploring as they would in the dark. Only everything is different in the light. More real. We can't hide the scars from each other. No. They're on display: a reminder that we got through this together, another thing that links us together.

I run my hands down the contours of his back. The skin is softer than it should be and makes my hands tingle as they glide over it. My wet hair drapes on his shoulders when I tuck my head under his. "What if?" I breathe into his neck, only to clutch him tighter, refusing to let him go.

His finger mischievously skirts the edge of the tenuously draped robe.

"Hmmm." Folded into him, I can feel the rumble in his chest.

It's nice to be this close to him, to have one less secret between us.

I release my clenched grip of him, long enough to take him in. His chest is flushed pink. I'm sure my face is the same. "You." It's the huskiest I've ever heard his voice. "You…"

"Sshh," I cut him off, rolling my eyes.

Footsteps clomp down the hall. Even he hears it now. We look at each other. Someone will have to go out there and shoo him off. Whatever was brewing between us has all but been snuffed out.

"Peeta!" he whispers so loudly I wonder if even his ears are filled with alcohol. "Where did that boy get off to?"

_Don't, _I tell him with my eyes.

I untangle myself from him, pull the robe back up on my shoulders, take a breath, crack open the door and step into the hall, much drier than last time.

"Looking for something?" It's an accusation.

"Hoping to borrow some spirits," he bluffs. "You hiding any around here?"

_Of course I keep liquor in the upstairs bathroom_. I do in fact keep an emergency stash in the basement, but I know he's not out. The train just came. "All out." I don't have to fake the frown.

"I'll just be going then." He turns to go.

Thanking him for partially watching Peeta for me is on the tip of my tongue. Good to know he's reliable.

"Goodnight," I say through my teeth.

Peeta chooses that time to trip over Buttercup's water bowl.

"Darn cat," I curse.

"Pretty big cat," he muses. "_Must be all that bread_," he adds under his breath.

"Sorry," comes a horse whisper from the bathroom.

And I am drowning in embarrassment.

"Don't let me keep you," Haymitch wags an eyebrow at me. He's out the door. I'm cold, wet and embarrassed.

* * *

**A/N: After I posted I got attacked by a crazy yellow jacket at the park. That's what I get for writing about tracker jackers. Sigh.**

**Thanks for reading. Reviews are always appreciated :) and often replied to (if you're logged in).**


	19. Chapter 19: His Bread, My Fire

**Chapter 19. His Bread, My Fire**

* * *

_Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of the chairs and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night that I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know that this would have happened anyway. That was I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is a dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that._

* * *

Quiet. That's how I describe the district for the next few days, weeks. Rebuilding consumes the war-torn parts of the country. And for a few days while a section of faraway rail is being repaired, our town is rendered unreachable by everything but hovercraft—which are rationed for the most important purposes. Thankfully, Plutarch and his singing show don't find an urgent need to visit. And for a few fortunate days, there's not the threat of prying camera lenses and we're reachable only by phone.

"We're just happy for the peace," Peeta says when the reporters inevitably call. "That the bloodshed has stopped, and that if even for a brief moment people can have a moment of happiness."

In the blissful quiet, I feel safer, better. Peeta is a constant, his arms around me on those summer nights so blistering hot I almost feel like I could melt. And, maybe it's the heat because things begin to slowly slip forward.

##

"You know what I'd like?" Peeta muses one night in a voice so barely there I'm certain I'm not supposed to hear. "To marry you."

It sounds like the idle thoughts of a boy lost in reverie more than a serious suggestion, so I take my turn in his game of whispered declarations. "Again?" I breathe.

Only he forgets the rules and breaks the lull. "Again?" he asks aloud in the frustrated, slightly frightened tone he reserves for when he can't place a memory. "But, we..."

"Someone told the whole country we already did." I run a finger slowly down his arm, wanting him to calm him so I can lay here and enjoy the quiet of the night.

"Oh."

He untwines his legs from mine and sits against the headboard, quietly discerning the shiny memories from matte reality. "But we didn't." All hints of uncertainty have vanished. He's decided.

"Does it matter?" I tuck myself under a rumpled sheet, clearly signaling that sleep, not conversation is what's on my agenda.

The moonlight from the window catches his mouth, which I can still taste on mine—a salty reminder of a flurry of breathless kisses that eventually became more.

"Yes." He's definite in his answer.

It doesn't matter to me. I don't want the spectacle, hassle of the whole thing. "There's no Justice Building," I remind him.

But as soon as the words slip out, all I can think of the smoldering black pile of rubble and what I've just reduced his dreams to.

I know it does matter to him. It's something he wants: a memory to fill in the void. Haymitch told me as much when I visited. It's the reason I'm still in the bed, relatively unfazed, not tugging on my boots and scrambling out the door like my life depends on it.

I played it over and over in my head, dissected it, spent weeks thinking it over. I shouldn't need weeks to think it over, not really.

He deserves every happiness he can dream up, even if I never will deserve him.

I want so desperately not to say the wrong thing now. I want him to say something, anything, to let me know what he's thinking. But he's up faster than I expected him to be, pulling on a pair of pants, even though I want him to stay, to trace my ear while I drift off.

My head is too fuzzy to follow him, so I half-sleep while I hear him pacing, talking to himself downstairs.

"Come to bed," I call down to him while Haymitch's words echo in my head.

_##_

_"Your boy came to see me the other day." Haymitch eyes me as I bring him a loaf of bread for his dinner._

_From his tone I can tell he's not talking about his usual social calls or wellness checks._

_"Seems he wants to ask you something."_

_Obviously, it's not about modified memories or if we're out of headache medicine._

_"Again."_

_It's not the first time I've heard this. The tabloids were going crazy with rumors for his visit to the Capitol. Try as I might to ignore it, for the last few weeks neighbors have been curiously bumping into me with their too big smiles. They want to know if it's true, if he bought me something, if he asked me something. I smile and tell them the chocolate was wonderful. I can't wait until a sweet shop opens here._

_I sit down at the table with him wishing I'd washed the dishes instead of volunteering to make sure Haymitch eats something solid. Nosey neighbors are one thing. Haymitch taking the time to talk to me means it's all too real._

_"I thought you should know," he continues._

So you won't do something stupid_ is implied._

_Haymitch digs out his cringe-worthy knife and begins to massacre the still-steaming loaf. "There is no changing that boy." He rolls his eyes. "I don't know what you've been filling his head with." He sucks down the last dregs of a bottle, and sets it down loudly between us._

_He's amassing quite the collection of empty glass bottles on the table. The room is dim as ever but looks to have been cleaned a few days ago._

_"He's made so much progress. I don't want to set him back." It's an accusation. "Do you?"_

_Guilt. He's always known the best way to get to me. My nails suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room._

_I shrug, not sure what to think. I know what Haymitch is asking me—if I'm capable of feeling anything for a devoted boy who's saved my life too many times to count._

_"This isn't enough?" I ask, suddenly plagued by frantic thoughts that sharing a life, a house, a bed with him still isn't helping, that it's just some selfish ploy on my end—that once again I'm using him._

_But it's not as simple as what I'm doing or not doing. It's something in his head, a gentlemanly notion to make things right, Haymitch explains._

_That much is clear enough. Hints have been dropped._

_After months, I'm finally happy with our arrangement. Apparently it only makes him want more. And more isn't something I'm sure I can offer at the moment._

_"He worries every that day he's going to wake up and someone's going to take you away, that you're going to get hurt hunting, that they'll take you back to the Capitol, that you'll change your mind, pick someone else._

_"You won't be picking someone else, will you?" It's not like Haymitch to ever sugarcoat things. He means it to be blunt, to shame me into remorse. But it's so much worse. That wound, despite the constant reminders of blackberries and snare lines, was finally closing only to be hacked wide open._

_"Why would you even say that?" I accuse him_

_"It could be him," he glances at the television. "It could be Prim," he says somberly. Chasing after my sister's ghost is probably what he thought I was doing those weeks alone. "Pills, anything else," he glances at the empty glass bottle on the table nearest to him. "There are always choices."_

_I let the words sink in. Haymitch's choices. My mother's choices. Peeta is a choice. It hasn't always seemed that way. He's been so forced. He's the tin foil in the bottom of the box: the shiny thing waiting for me to make a grab. Only, as I close my fist around it, I realize I'm caught in a trap, a too-good-to-be-true setup that can only end with letting go or getting hurt._

_Haymitch has made his choice. I can't bring myself to make mine. Sometimes I think I'm almost strong enough, only to second-guess myself. One day. Maybe soon._

_And somehow my evening bread delivery turned into a life lesson._

_"There's time," he assures me. "He could probably wait forever, but do you really want him to wait? After what he's been through?"_

_Peeta is happy. The happiest he's been since we've been home. He bakes. He paints. Since that night, he never lets me out of the room without a kiss. But he deserves to be happier._

_I examine the newest empty bottle to distract myself. Brown, not clear. This month he's interested in ales, stouts and lagers. He laughs more, passes out less. He's practically jolly at times. Unfortunately, when he's conscious, he's a little looser lipped so the advice is free-flowing. Which could have come in handy in years past when his best advice was two syllables._

_"What about you, Haymitch?" I ask after a pause. There's got to be more than spirits and spying on the screw-loose neighbor kids._

_"I got what I wanted, didn't I?" he snorts. "Big house. Pesky neighbors. A yard full of pets."_

_He flashes a sneer that shows off a discolored tooth that needs to be looked at._

_And maybe he did get what he wanted. No more having to coach underfed children to their death. No more Snow and his threats and poison. Most importantly, no peacekeepers or one-legged victors restricting his beverage intake._

_I give him a half smile, hoping that he's at least somewhat happier than he was. "You got us." I give him a perky Effie shrug. I'm sure chief-relationship-advice giver was just the post he hoped to be rewarded with for his dedication to the war effort._

_"Damn geese are less trouble than you are," he chides._

_I get out of the chair and pad toward the kitchen. I bring the soft fresh-out-of the oven-bread Haymitch was hacking at and cover it with cheese and sliced meat. I plate it and bring him an ice-cold new brown bottle. "They won't bring you this."_

_"I knew there was a reason I picked you," he smiles._

##

I wrap the white sheet around me and go downstairs where Peeta is nursing a glass of ice water.

He sees me, and his sleepy, heavy-lidded smile turns up a few notches. He scoots out the chair next to his and pushes the sweating glass towards me. Part of me wants to drape the sheet around both of us and tug him straight back to the bed, but I keep going.

It's a sticky hot night, the kind of heat where the laundry on the clothesline won't dry completely. I kneel at the fireplace and remove the screen. It hasn't been used in months so it coughs and sputters with many false starts, but slowly I coax it back to life.

I can feel the flame practically lick my chest and instantly wish I'd gotten some water before coming over here.

"Katniss?" he uses the you-need-to-take-your-pills voice.

I throw him a bemused shrug and head toward the kitchen. Ice water first. Then, after I've found what I'm looking for, tuck it under the sheet and resume my spot by the hearth. "Come here," I say, revealing nothing.

He sighs, tilts back his glass and comes to join me.

"Let's go back to bed," he says, securing the sheet around me in one of those overly concerned gestures that make his eyes spark. It's just the two of us, so the placement of our household linens shouldn't matter, but to him this intimate gesture makes all the difference.

"I thought we could," and I hold up the bread. He's the one who brought it up after all.

He doesn't speak for so long I'm sure I've done the worst thing possible. I've set off some kind of trigger and I glance around for his medicine, the telephone, anything to help.

When I'm on the brink of panic, he finally grabs my hand. "Are you sure?"

And I realize that he's not fighting off a seizure, but tears. He's trying as he always does to be strong for me. Only he's strong in a way that I'll never be.

I curl up against him and put my head on his shoulder. "If you want." It was his idea anyway: the secret toasting from last year's interview, his declaration a few minutes ago, Haymitch's not so subtle message to make the boy happy.

He lets out a long breath. He's going to tell me no. He's changed his mind. I steel myself and prepare an understanding smile. We'll just go to bed like nothing happened.

"Is this about earlier?" he whispers. "I wasn't saying we had to."

"It's time," I tell him with feigned confidence.

"Should I?" he glances down at his knee.

I shake my head. He doesn't have to. Once is more than enough.

"I wanted to do it right." He kisses the top of my head. "I had it all planned out."

I kiss his shoulder. I don't need any of that.

"A picnic. Some place green and outside. At sunset." He's lost in a daydream, luring me in. "I thought you'd like it. I had it all planned out."

Haymitch told me another time that he wanted to ask me, to do it right. Here I am making impulsive decisions in the middle of the night. It should be something thought through, not spur-of-the moment. Not something this life-altering.

My eyes go wide. _I ruin everything,_ I want to say. I suppose I should let him. Not rush things. It just seemed right "Some other time then," I dismiss the idea and go to put out the ridiculously sweltering fire.

He grabs my hand. "It's perfect."

Peeta won't let me protest but says to give him a few minutes. His look is too hopeful for me to object.

He putters around the kitchen and closets, no doubt coming up with something more perfect than my thrown together attempt.

I perch on the couch, away from the heat, half watch Peeta grab this and that. He even runs back to his house. I nap, thinking about how not so long ago things changed so much between us.

##

_It happens one night, when the kisses become more. I start to feel more, need him more than I thought possible. Kisses slowly become more and I can't escape that hunger I first felt on the beach._

_I need him. I need him. I need him._

_And after, I lie there and realize that it's so much more than need. And that this terrible closeness I feel passed need so long ago._

_Any lingering doubt or dash of denial vanishes. Whatever convoluted feelings I've been pushing down, ignoring, flood forward. And I know._

_I curl up next to him, and lay my head on his chest. If his heart can come back from the dead—so many times, surely the jagged pieces of mine can be mended. So I listen to his heart like it's the most glorious sound in the world._

##

He kisses me back to life, tempting me with sweet apple slices, cheesebuns and chocolates dripping in the heat. He's spread a picnic blanket in front of the fire. It's his attempt to dress up my otherwise stark proposal, make it a memory more than an afterthought.

I join him on the floor. I suggested it. He suggested it. It's happening.

"I had it planned," he gestures. And I can see it now. The sunset. The question. The memory he wanted.

"Let me go clean up," I try, suddenly aware my mussed hair, disheveled appearance, the white fabric knotted around me in a make-shift dress. I should give him some memory other than a hot-blooded whim.

He leans into my neck. "You're glowing."

I go to argue with him, but he's adamant.

"This is what you wanted?" I motion to the setup.

"_You_ are what I wanted."

I'll never be as perfect as the girl in his sketches and paintings, but tonight I can give him something he desperately wants.

In the fierce summer heat we sit in front of my fireplace and make each other promises.

Fire balls, muttations, gun shot wounds and this still might be the most terrifying thing I've ever done. Unlike situations I couldn't see coming, I had years to build up this phobia, to see others' worlds crumble, to lose loved ones, to harden myself from feeling.

It also might be the most beautiful, honest thing. It's just the two of us. Like it's been so much of the time. There's no finery. No beautiful bejeweled dresses or sleek tuxedos.

Even scarred and shirtless, Peeta's never looked better. His whole countenance radiates joy: his eyes, cheeks, eyebrows—even the way he holds his head. He looks young again, so much younger than he's seemed for so long. His grin is a little too big, a mixture of nerves and disbelief.

We plunge the bread into the fire, which seems so appropriate in the moment given all we've been through. And with scarred hands we feed each other bread.

I rub my thumb over his lips, prolonging the moment.

His bread. My fire.

It might as well have been our toasting all those years ago when he fed me burnt bread, we've been so linked since then.

The fire crackles and pops. And I tremble thinking of all those things that could go wrong, that I won't make him happy, that he'll change his mind, that I don't know what I'm doing.

But bread is life. And tonight we give each other a new life.


	20. Chapter 20: Reasons to Celebrate

**Apologies for any typos. I rewrote it after it was proofread.**

* * *

"I know about the bread." Haymitch practically coughs the words to me as we walk towards the train station.

He's asked me to make a special trip to help him pick up his latest delivery. Peeta would be the more obvious choice for his usual crates of glass bottles, but that's not who he asked.

"Oh, he's always making a new recipe." I play coy. "The cheddar beer bread wasn't supposed to be a surprise."

His eyes twinkle at the mention of Peeta's Haymitch-inspired recipe, and then it's back to my weekly scolding. "I know." His voice is stern and low. "And if I know, they'll know soon enough."

I know that his warning is the same as ever: be discreet or it will be on the evening news. But I don't feel ready to admit my midnight exploits to him or anyone else. It's between Peeta and me—no one else. We've decided to keep it that way, to have something just to ourselves for once.

"It's no secret how cozy you two are," he narrows his eyes like it's shameful that we spend time together. I know Haymitch doesn't disapprove. He's practically shoved me towards Peeta more times than I can count. I think he actually clapped the first time he saw Peeta kiss me, and made some crass comment about Peeta living dangerously.

I scowl, cross my arms, own up to nothing.

"About your living arrangement. You practically _skipping_ through town," he scoffs. Then he throws his hands up. "He whistles, Katniss!"

At this Haymitch forgets his plotting voice and the ruddy-cheeked woman who runs a vegetable stand lets out a chuckle as she breezes by us back toward her stand across from the station.

"What's wrong with his whistling?" I quickly shoot back. "Would you rather him be screaming obscenities at doctors and mumbling about soap?" I hiss. "Because this—_this_ is an improvement."

And I thought this is what Haymitch wanted.

Haymitch shoots me a look that clearly screams _are you a blithering idiot? _"Because clearly I told you two boneheads to scream it from the rooftops," he sneers at me. "Keep it up and see what happens," he goads. "See how many of your little friends come over to play."

I study the creases in my leather boots**. **_Make him happy,_ he tells me. _But not too happy,_ because if anyone outside the district finds out, we'll both be miserable.

"This just in, Peeta Mellark whistles on his way to the bakery. Whatever could be causing this odd phenomena?" I say in my best clipped accent. The mentor is, of course, not amused.

When it's just us waiting on the platform, he lowers his voice. "Whatever you two are doing….." He scrunches up his mouth, shifts his weight, turns vaguely the shade of a cornhusk. "Tone it down."

The only one that really knows is Buttercup, whose tail may have been stepped on when Peeta carried me up the stairs, but I doubt he's sold his story. Until then, it's Haymitch and his contradictory suggestions and reprimands.

The train's distant whistle breaks the heavy silence when my words can't.

It's a speck on the horizon and I can barely make it out. As it chugs closer, I turn to Haymitch. "What do you need help with anyway?" I ask. "Can't you just tip one of the attendants to carry it to your house?"

With that, Haymitch breaks from staring down the distant train, willing it into the station. He scratches his head. "Carry it? I'd like to see you try."

It must have been a bad day when he asked me for this favor. "Then what am I doing here?"

"You got something coming in for you."

His warning. He has always known in the past. My eyes go wide. Five minutes notice? How thoughtful.

I go to make a run for it, when he hooks me around the elbow. He's quicker than the stubble and stained shirt would lead you to believe.

"I made you a deal," he says out of the corner of his mouth. "You do this, and you do it right, and they should leave you alone….for a while."

I gulp.

And accept my fate.

The train whooshes into the train station and I wish for a second that the gust would carry me far, far away from camera lenses and constant scrutiny. And Haymitch clueing me in on his plans wouldn't hurt either.

As the doors slide open, it's not the blinding pop of flash or the shrill of shouting reporters that I'm greeted with but a shock of lemon yellow hair.

Haymitch grabs his crate of bottles and then sprints away to spend some quality time with his beloved.

"Katniss!" Effie Trinket clacks over to me in neon orange heels. She's dressed in a lemon yellow and pink tweed skirt suit.

"Was that Haymitch?" Effie tilts her coifed head and tries to follow the dust trail left in his wake.

I shrug. I suppose it could be any other lovable drunk.

She gives me a slow onceover, her eyes moving from the stray hairs hanging out of my braid down to the soles of my well worn boots. "You look so….rustic," she attempts, not really trying to hide the curl in her lip.

She then goes straight to smoothing my hair and collar trying to make me presentable. I peek around the platform for lenses, but the train gives a warning whistle that it will soon leave again.

She's carrying her clipboard, the one she uses for staying her overly meticulous schedules and I know I'm in for it.

"It's going to be a big, big day," I say before she has the chance. I'm beginning to piece together the breadcrumbs so haphazardly left for me.

Effie gives me an annoyed smile.

"I have us surveying the venue for the next two hours, one hour for the menu, one hour for watching tapes of the bands, an hour for lunch, two hours for the rest of the forms and a spare hour in case anything takes too long," Effie announces, glancing down at a large notebook packed to the brim with papers. "Then I'm catching the train back at 6:15."

I'm exhausted just listening to that list, but I walk her across the way to the Hall of Records. The ribbon-cutting is coming up, and I think I overheard some local gardeners snickering about her television declaration that this project could only be hers because she knows District 12 better than anyone else.

And since the cameras don't seem to be tailing her, I might as well play along.

"Oh, Katniss," Effie exclaims, when one of her pumps aerates the lawn. "Have you been watching Plutarch's singing show? Isn't it divine? I was so hoping I'd get to see you on there." She sticks out her bottom lip in what I can only assume is a pout.

It's finals week on the show and the press must be busy with his new crop of crooning stars. The whole country seems to be shackled to their television sets, like they've been programmed to every summer. But since the only weapons on the show are tone-deaf participants and general screeching, I don't wholly object. I don't watch, but am glad for the spotlight to be focused elsewhere.

Plutarch did try, of course. I made up some lie promising to be on camera soon.

If Effie wasn't watching I'd smack my forehead. The ribbon-cutting. Who else could host it? Of course I'll be on TV again soon.

I let Haymitch's backroom scheming sink in. And really, this doesn't make my stomach churn as much as prancing around a stage and singing folk-rock versions of songs contending for votes for our new national anthem. So I suppose I should thank him or at least not wake him up with cold water the next time one of his geese charges Sae's granddaughter.

"Such a testament to progress," Effie breaks my train of thought as we approach the new building.

The Hall of Records looks alarmingly more complete everyday. With the glittery machines from the Capitol the construction takes no time at all. Everything happens in the blink of an eye.

I'm trying to be excited about actually having some semblance of a town in the district—more than vegetable stands and businesses run out of houses, but the more people come back, the busier the district gets, the more people there are to bump into, talk to, want to know all the details of my post revolutionary life.

It's their home. They should come back—if they want to. Not everyone does.

But will it be the same? It can't be. That could be for the better. I just don't want this ghost town will turn into a hub for something like fur underwear and for District 12, and those thousands that lost their lives last year, to be forgotten.

The town is in good spirits though, happy to start over, to have something new that's not a reminder of the old regime.

The building isn't quite finished but Effie obtained special permission for us to go in before it's open. The construction crew nods as we enter. I think there's some pity in their look.

She consults a diagram in her notes and gives me the tour like I haven't already snuck in and looked around. She names off all the different offices: permits, courts and the office for the new security force, currently being trained in District 13.

We're in the ballroom brainstorming color schemes for the room. I've vetoed mauve and chartreuse because I don't know what colors they actually are. "Green?" I suggest.

"Emerald." Effie's eyes flash.

She scribbles furiously on her clipboard while I look out the window, trying to figure out if I can see the bakery from the ballroom, where we're standing.

"So Katniss," Effie bats the black spider legs attached to her eyelids at me when she comes up from note-taking. I brace myself for whatever she thinks she has to preface with her too-interested shrill. "Has he asked you yet?"

"What hasn't he asked me?" I groan. "To try his cheese buns. If I dropped that tracker jacker nest on him on purpose. To darn his socks for him." I roll my eyes for emphasis.

She titters at my feigned obliviousness. "Oh, Katniss. _The _question." Her eyes go big and she gives me a pained smile. "I have a sneaking suspicion Peeta would be like to be more than roommates."

"It's not like that," I cut her off. "With everything, it's just too much." I lie to her. I probably should feel bad, but it's Effie, who enthusiastically sent my neighbors to their death year after year. "We're friends," I tell her in that voice I used to convince Peeta and myself the same thing months ago.

She flips through her notes and I think she's about to change the subject to something more interesting like napkin rings or relish forks.

"If you two don't get married the whole country is going to be a wreck."

Her accent makes it hard to tell if she's being sarcastic or sincere. I also think I hear her say under her breath "and I won't get to plan it and launch my wedding planning business."

"So people still care about us?" The occasional swarms of press make me think they do, but really it makes no sense. But then again crazed killers were always a little too popular in the Capitol.

"I do," she says. "I want you to be happy. And I think you love Peeta more than I loved any of the silly men I ever married."

I give her my best version of perplexed. Then remember her telling me about each of her three wedding ceremonies. Each marriage lasted only a year. It's some weird Capitol contracting system that seems to benefit wedding vendors and dress designers. I smile and nod, like she taught me.

"Oh, I'll have to talk to him," she leans in and whispers like she's telling me a delicious secret. "We'll plan it, make it something absolutely amazing. Of course we can't tell you because you can't know about it."

I think she gives me a wink, but it might just be dust in her eye. This place isn't exactly spotless. While the ballroom is free from piles of sawdust and electrician's drooping pants, the floor is covered in a fine layer of dust and the room smells strongly of paint fumes.

Her heels hammer on the floor as she wanders around the hall noting taped up windows and electrical outlets. She jolts so suddenly I think she may have examined that outlet a little too closely. "Maybe he's planning…" Then she makes a motion as if she's buttoning her bottom lip.

"Oh wouldn't that be splendid?" she mutters to herself. She takes out her notes again and her scrawling takes on a new fury. No doubt, she's doing what she does best and planning our lives away.

Even though I know she'll never get it, I say it anyway. "We've had enough of the spotlight. So maybe not?"

"Preposterous," she says though teeth so gritted I'm worried. "These days there are never enough galas." She lowers her eyes and lowers her tone. "Or reasons to celebrate."

I bite back a sigh.

"I'm sure this grand opening will be dazzling," I tell her, wanting to push her back to planning what she's supposed to be planning—not an engagement party for a semi-married couple. And to show my cooperation, I go through her food list and select foods most suited for a District 12 celebration: finger sandwiches, cookies, cheese dips. It might just be more fun without having to explain to miners accustomed to mystery meat stew what foi gras, crostinis or brie en croute is. I'm not sure myself.

When the tasks on her list are completed and we're running ahead of schedule, Effie insists on visiting Peeta's soon-to-be-famous bakery.

The construction on it was finished in no time at all. Since then, Peeta's been working on the getting the permits to open, and the perfect equipment to furnish it.

"That's so nice that he gave you a key," Effie pries.

"Sometimes I sign for deliveries when he's out," I say. "Once, Haymitch lost an entire oven. Straight from District 3. For some reason, it ended up in the middle of the vegetable market. That's why I do it. I wouldn't know how to misplace an oven."

I show her where the cake display will be in the glass window, the pantry, the mixers, the various stations. She taps her pen on her notebook as we walk.

"He needs a sign," she says waving the pen. "What will it be called? Peeta's Pastries? Pastries by Peeta? Breathtaking Bread? Custom Cakes?" She rattles on a list of names each one more awful than the last. "Starcrossed Sweets, Victor's Viddles."

"I don't know." I grab her hand and stop her there, worried "Bun in the Oven" will soon be emblazoned in neon pink and green over Peeta's pride-and-joy.

Peeta's busy today with equipment installations, but finding him might quickly remedy this situation. I follow the noise to the back of the bakery, where Peeta is pouring a giant bag of flour into an oversized mixer that he can't get to mix at the right speed.

"Katniss." He lights up when I come in. Everything is written on his face. He's broadcasting every kiss, every quiet moment in the dark to our Capitol-bred escort.

_Tone it down, _I glare.

"Effie Trinkett," Peeta says warmly, and comes over to give the woman a hug. Unfortunately, he keeps his floury hands off her suit. "How long has it been? You look dashing. Is that a new suit? It looks straight off the runway."

It's exactly what she wanted to hear. And she lights up like a hot pink Capitol lightbulb, and gives me a glare as if to say _why can't you be more like this?_

Peeta cleans up and sits her down at the counter and shows her a sketchbook of the bakery's products. Effie eats it up.

"I've heard all about my little lovebirds," Effie trills.

"They're not native to District 12," I mumble before Peeta nudges my boot and changes the subject.

"The district really is coming along wonderfully," Peeta turns the page in his sketchbook. "I can't tell you how happy I am to be back." He glances my way and I roll my eyes.

"Ahh, young love," Effie sighs and throws her head back.

I take my time inspecting the front of the shop and the cash register that must have been delivered this morning.

Effie has me look over all of the party planning forms. More smiling and nodding until she realizes she has one signature to get before she can leave. Peeta's got bakery business to attend to, I offer to take her to the village.

"How's he doing?" she asks.

"The usual," I reply, wondering if she can expect anything different.

"He'll drink until the cows come home," she muses.

"Geese," I correct. "He raises geese, not cows."

She wrinkles her nose.

And for once we agree on something. "Filthy things," I mutter.

The walk to Haymitch's house is marked only by the sound of Effie's heels on the paved sidewalks. I note a few cracked blinds as the neighbors sneak a peek at the colorful woman with impeccable posture.

She knows precisely which house is his and walks purposefully to his door and raps loudly on it. Then starts tapping her foot as the seconds go by.

No one ever knocks on Haymicth's door. If you know him, you either barge in or shout your curses from the stoop. Knocking is for travelling salesmen and visitors who don't know any better.

But before I can tell her this, there's an awful honking sound and that vile gaggle of geese storms the corner of the house, wings arched, beaks open wide.

I can only watch as they troop in a beeline towards Effie and encircle her. Feathers fly and Effie looks as though she's auditioning for one of Haymitch's horror movies. She crouches against the door, nails in her mouth, one protective knee up, leaving her teetering on one four-inch spike.

Her eyes go wide. "Katniss," she pleads. I kick at one of them and shuffle toward Effie. "Get." I yell and throw a rock off towards Haymitch's backyard. "Go on."

I have resorted to throwing bread at them in the past. But I don't actually want them following me around. And after watching Buttercup brazenly swat at the things I've learned to not let them know you're afraid of them so I just try and act tough, so the gander backs down and finds someone else to bother. Effie doesn't know that. She is smart enough to know they bite.

After his pickup earlier, I'm pretty sure Haymitch will be out cold so I reach around behind Effie and open the unlocked door.

When Effie is inside, I give the door a hard shove half hoping to catch something foul in the doorjamb.

If Haymitch had been asleep, the slam might have woken him up, but he's sitting at the window, guffawing so hard he's holding his belly.

They are _his_ geese.

"I need you to sign these," Effie spits at him instead of making the usual pleasantries.

"Ever so nice to see you, Miss Trinket. Looking loverly as usual," Haymitch stops laughing long enough to bait her. He takes the paperwork from her, skims it and signs it while she looks around at his housekeeper-less abode.

"Is that a new wig?" Haymitch asks when Effie starts too look a little green at the covered floor and debris field of a kitchen.

"As, always, a pleasure to see you, Mr. Abernathy." She looks at her slim gold watch. "Really, look at the time. We'll have to catch up some other time. I have a train to catch."

Effie is still running ahead of schedule but we head to the depot anyway. Peeta's leaned up against a pillar with a white box of baked goods in his hands.

When the train arrives and Effie climbs aboard, cookies stacked on top of her clipboard. Peeta tries to wrap his arm around me as we send her off. I have to tie my shoe to avoid it because she might still see us through a window.

He gives me a pleading look. "You don't have to act like this."

I don't have to pretend that we're something we're not. It's not always a show, but some odd part of me is just conditioned that way.

Effie waves back at us from inside the train. When it starts to chug away, I let myself relax a little. I don't have to put up a wall Peeta and me. I just don't know what bugs she might plant in Plutarch's ears.

"We can handle it," he gives my shoulder a squeeze.

"I don't want to," I tell him too quickly, pushing him off. "Why is it any of their damn business?"

He matches my outrage with his own brand of cool. He grabs my hand. "Because we're happy." He gives me a surprise twirl and reels me in. "And everyone loves a happy ending."

Still fuming, I don't know how he can think that. "You're happy?" I finally ask. It comes out more timid than I expect.

Peeta lowers his face to mine. "Very."


	21. Chapter 21: Press and Permits

"Are you ready?" Peeta asks.

It's not his usual affectionate, thrilled-to-be-here-with-you good morning, but he knows I'm already awake.

The sun isn't quite up yet, but soon it will start to peek over the horizon and the day will officially begin, but already something feels different.

It's ingrained in Peeta to rise early and start filling District 12 with the smell of fresh baked bread. It's best to get an early start in the woods, so this has been how we start our day—when the world is so quiet it feels like just the two of us.

I have the feeling that if I was the type to sleep until noon, he'd do that too, if only to be able to brush my hair out of my face and be the first voice I hear upon waking. It's become a tiny ritual and I don't know if he knows how much I appreciate starting the day with a sliver of whispered joy instead of a hefty helping of my own dread.

"Weeks ago," I tell him truthfully. Seeing that sleepy-eyed smile makes me not regret it. Seeing the change in his step—all of this makes it worth it. I'll do what it takes. For him.

"We don't have to." He gives me a way out. He's completely predictable in his selflessness, but I won't take him up on the offer.

"We'll do it," I say, burying my head in his chest for a few more minutes of the calm that only he can give me. I simply wouldn't know what to do without these mornings with him—without him in general. Even before he moved his belongings in, he was always here in the mornings, offering pills, a pep talk, hope. It got simpler when he started staying over and simpler still when home became one roof—not two. I thought that all I needed was a companion, but apparently we both wanted more. I nudge my foot against his thinking about how impossibly close we've grown since the summer and hungry kisses, rumpled sheets and realizations, bread and promises.

I place my palm on Peeta's chest and wonder how much longer we have before this big, big day officially begins. Not long enough.

It seems like such an afterthought, but I have to ask. "Do you not want to?" I say without looking him in the eye. Maybe it's him looking for a way out?

He takes my hand in his and forces me to look at him. _How could you even ask that?_ His look seems to say.

"I'll do it," he affirms. "Everything we planned." He raises an eyebrow. "I mean, everything Effie planned. All the appearances, filming, hosting…"

Today is the district's official grand opening. A ribbon cutting celebration is planned for tonight and everyone is turning up—those still in 13 and scattered around the country are coming home, many to stay, some just for the party.

Effie has us scheduled with some official function or other the entire day, which is why I'm considering throwing this blanket over my head and faking swine pox. But I won't.

"I do have to redeem myself," he says. "I don't really want to be known as the fainting boy forever."

"There is some appeal to it." He pokes me. He lowers his voice. "Do you think they'd leave us alone then?"

"Not a chance." I lean in to give his cheek a peck. And freeze.

Eerily on cue, the door to our bedroom is furled open. "Up and at 'em, sunshine," I hear as Johanna stands in the doorway with a coffee cup in each hand. Her hair is full and cut short, but rumpled in about six different directions from sleep.

She's wearing a T-shirt that looks very familiar and little else.

I'm not sure when she broke into my closet. Her train came in late last night and after hello's, she was quickly shown to Peeta's house, After so many months just being used only a bakery, it's turned into a guest house—for Delly and our friends that are visiting for today's festivities.

I haven't seen her in months, but in seconds I can tell she has her spunk back in spades.

"I would have let you borrow pants," I mutter under my breath. Obviously, she took Peeta a little too literally when he said 'make yourself at home.'

Peeta touches my arm. _Be nice,_ he reminds me.

"Good morning," he tells our very unwanted guest. She simpers as she makes no attempt to hide her spying on us. I almost can't blame her. While many of District 12's visitors seem a little too interested in us, they didn't try to bring us coffee at 5:30 a.m.

"Mockingjay." She almost spits there's so much disdain in her voice. She hands me a moss green mug. I'm slightly afraid of what might be in it. Peeta gets a robin's egg blue mug. "This will put some hair on your chest," she practically nuzzles him as she leans in to hand him the mug before peeking under the sheet to actually inspect his chest. It's covered in more scars than hair.

"You look like some kind of war hero," she tells him, ignoring me completely. "Some girls are really into that."

I don't like the tone her voice takes when she says this, but I've come to know Johanna well enough to know that's exactly the point.

I take a sip out of my cup and reflexively cough it out before it can go down. I haven't had coffee since coming home, but I don't remember it tasting this bad. It burns and not because it's overheated.

Peeta pats my back like a mother might for a newborn.

"Oh," Johanna says unconvincingly. "Forgot. It's the mentor who likes his coffee that way. I'll try and remember _next time,"_ she teases like there will be a next time.

Peeta smiles and politely sets his potentially spiked coffee on the nightstand.

Johanna takes that as some sort of an invitation and promptly plops down in the middle of the bed, right between us. She looks quite pleased with herself. I scoot a little further over so my space isn't intruded on to such a bitter degree.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks Peeta, who seems to be short of words with an axe murderer stretched out so close to him.

"Fine, and you?" He remembers his manners.

"You don't get nearly enough television channels out here," Johanna complains. "But good enough, I suppose."

Johanna leans in like she's going to tell him a secret. _Old friends,_ I tell myself to keep from kicking her.

"You didn't scream." If she left it there, they could just be discussing post-torture nightmares, but no. "Nearly enough last night," she baits. "Frankly I'm disappointed." She's not talking nightmares.

"Johanna," Peeta chimes in quickly before the expletive is out of my mouth. "If you give us a few minutes, we'll meet you downstairs for breakfast," Peeta gives her his best get-out-of-my-bedroom smile. "I'll make scones," he tells her so coldly. I wonder if he's planning on putting something extra in hers.

#

Before long, it's a torrent of wardrobe, nails and lots of smelly, stinky concoctions as the prep team has come to town for their semi-annual plucking and dressing of the Mockingjay.

Octavia greets me with an enthusiastic hug. "Look at you," she squeals and spins me around. "I practically have no work to do."

She's joking of course. But I'm well fed and I've lost that crazy look in my eyes.

"Seriously," she whispers. "There's something different." I can see her scrunch her face in the mirror. "I can't figure out what it is. Same eyebrows, hair, skin," she mutters to herself. "Must be that new skin cream," she finally declares.

I hope Octavia doesn't notice the unopened jar in the bathroom closet if she goes to look for supplies.

With Venia working on Peeta, Flavius attempting to mix an emergency batch of scar concealer and Johanna getting an impromptu lecture from Effie on the importance of wearing pants in public, my mother slips into the bathroom and braids my hair. The way her hands feel weaving through my hair makes me feel like a little girl again and make me all too aware of how much I miss her. I want to ask her to stay, to come home. But I don't. She seems happy with her work with the hospital and I don't want to see her sad. It was such a big deal that she even agreed to set foot in 12 today. She didn't want to come. Until we told her. Convinced her that we wanted to her to come. But now that she's here, she seems consumed by guilt and we've exchanged more sad, guilty glances than secret smiles.

Octavia pops back in and nods in approval at my hair. Mother watches, quietly grinning to herself, while Octavia pats my face with powder that tickles my throat. But I hold as still as I can because if all goes according to plans this will be the last time I'm made over.

#

I step out of the door and know it's not any other day. The town is bustling, humming with energy. This buzz has gradually been growing, but today it's finally here—the much-anticipated grand opening for the Hall of Records.

I'm trying not to dread the day—the dress, the pinchy shoes, the cameras, scripts and taping.

_It can't be that bad._ But as I'm telling myself I hear the first shouts of "Katniss! Peeta! Over here."

We're only now passing the stone planter marking the entrance to the village. In the distance I can see another camera crew piling out of the latest of today's many trains. It's begun.

I keep my eyes on my shoes, not acknowledging the newcomers in the slightest.

Mother walks briskly up beside me, head held high and blocks the shot. She's protecting me, and this small act means so much.

Similarly, Pollux puffs his chest and walks one side of Peeta, who is throwing way too many wide-eyed are-you-okay? glances over in my direction.

Several crews are in the district and we seem to steadily acquire them during the short trip to the new building, where filming is supposed to start—at least according to Effie's itinerary. I don't know why I agreed to this, why Peeta was on board. It all seems so unnecessary. But it's this or cameras in the primrose bushes, so I push forward.

Venia, Flavius and Octavia take the outside of the group, grabbing at every microphone they can to flaunt today's choice of finishing powder or the brand of ultraviolet lipliner that they're using on all the celebrities these days.

Just making the trip is exhausting. More crews are on the front steps. All I really want to do is find a dark closet and wait this out. Peeta could bring me dinner and let me know when they're gone.

The press surrounds us like a pack of famished wild dogs. There are no trees to climb. So it's one foot in front of the other until we're inside the building. The footsteps are too loud on the pavement. The sound echoes through me. I can feel in in my veins—each anxiety throbbing through me. _I can do this, I can do this, I can do this, I repeat_.

"Tut, tut, "Effie clucks and she catches up to join the group. She powerwalks—all spiky heels and elbows—to the front, a stumbling and barely awake Haymitch in tow. He lumbers forward, balancing on his right, then left foot, like someone roused from the depths of sleep. He loses his balance, veers too far to the right and practically tackles a camera man, who tries to steady himself on the too-thin reporter, who's too busy jotting something in her notebook to notice the tumble she's about to take.

While all eyes are glued on the toppling heap and Haymitch's slurred apologies, I pull open a side door to the building.

A quick once-over at the floor to ceiling file cabinets tells me we've ended up, rather unintentionally, in the permits office where we're expected to film shortly.

"Oh hi Peeta, Katniss?" Delly cocks hers head, glances once towards the main entrance that visitors are supposed to enter through and gives us an enthusiastic, if wide-eyed and some-what bewildered greeting.

I shrug.

"We're running a little early," Peeta explains. "We had some unexpected guests, and took a little shortcut. I hope you don't mind."

"I saw," Delly shakes her head and motions us away from the door.

This is her new office and she's been talking nonstop about codes and procedures since she came home a few weeks ago.

When the bell over the main office door jingles open, she shoves us under her desk before we're seen. She bats her eyelashes, smiles brightly as if nothing is amiss and she's not hiding one of the country's most infamous duos while a pack of paparazzi lurks just feet away. No, everything is perfectly in order.

Footsteps approach and Delly excitedly begins her welcome-to-the-permits office speech she's been rehearsing after dinner every night. Today, she finally gets a real audience.

And from the twang in the man's voice, I know he's native.

"Just fill out this form here," Delly says with a sweetness that I'm sure was never conveyed in the old Justice Building.

The office handles voting paperwork, including candidates and ballot measures for the elections, business permits, building permits, marriage permits, zoning ordinances and even hunting licenses. It's modeled after the ultra-organized one from District 13, where everything was meticulously sorted and rationed properly. A committee there adopted it for District 12 with the addition of the functions our residents are used to. While it seems like a lot of paperwork for Delly, it's supposed to keep track of who's doing what and it's far less oppressive than the previous system where it was almost impossible to start a new legal business. And even then the Peacekeepers could shut you down with a moments notice. Here, you don't need bribes and connections to start a business, only a signature on the correct forms.

When the tinkling door chime rings continuously, I have a feeling it's not a steady parade of former miners wanting to open up produce stands or hardware shops.

She glances down at us—Peeta wrinkling his new suit and playing with a cufflink and me quietly scoping out the best course for another hasty escape. Her smile is nervous. She lets out a few awkward giggles before smoothing her hands on her sunshine yellow dress and throwing her shoulders back.

"Excuse me," Delly attempts an attention-grabbing yet polite yell. "I'm going to have to ask you to put those cameras away."

I love Delly in that moment.

"I guess you didn't see this sign?" Delly chirps, tapping a pen on the sliding glass partition that separates her desk from the lobby.

"We've had this filming planned for months," a flummoxed woman complains. "Wait until the networks hear about this."

"Why weren't we warned about this?" a deeper voice chimes in.

Now that my suspicions have been confirmed, that the press has staked out the building, all I want to do is see their faces. I shift my weight and Peeta shakes his head at me. That would only make things worse.

"We just opened this morning. We're sending out memos to media outlets right now." Delly points to some blinking, whirring machines behind her desk. I duck.

"This is unacceptable," the first woman snaps.

"The ball tonight can be filmed," Delly says matter-of-factly. That much we were expecting. "Just not this office. We don't want you disturbing…" Delly trails off. "Oh, they've all left."

Delly pouts a little, breaking her smiley veneer for a second.

"What will we use for the noon broadcast?" I hear from the other side of the partition.

Delly picks up a handful of grey clipboards, flashes a sour smile. "You can film with a permit."

"A permit to film?" This time the voice is Cressida's. She and Delly met at dinner last night. But this means, our crew is here, likely looking for us.

"Yes, a press permit," she says coolly, without a trace of giggle. I'm so proud of her in that moment. Peeta flashes her a thumbs up.

"They don't have these in any of the other districts."

"They will soon," Delly chirps. "We're trying it out."

"Is this really necessary?"

"Absolutely," Delly says. "We need to know who's filming and when. Several members of the community and hall of records staff especially requested it in committee," she mock whispers like she's telling them a scandalous secret. "We can't have the press running amuck, spreading propaganda, making up lies about our citizens, disturbing the peace." She taps her pencil as she spouts off the reasons. "It helps with security and is really in the best interest of the town."

What I'm loving best about this is Delly's ever-present plastered on smile. Just peeking up at her, I can tell it gets bigger as the news she delivers worsens. She's perfect for this job. Especially if she can keep the press away.

She dumps the stack of clipboards down on the counter and slides them toward the press. "But if you fill out these forms," Delly recites with exaggerated slowness, "and find a District 12 resident to sponsor your filming and bring it back to me, and you can film every spider web, security guard's boot, water fountain or couch cushion that you like."

The clipboards are scooped up and there's grumbling about hassles, perky blondes and sponsorships from the hostile locals.

"I'm more than happy to call security," she grins. "The new holding cells are just lovely, I hear."

The bell on the door starts ringing again and the office becomes noticeably quieter.

Delly hands a clipboard down to Peeta with the forms we filled out weeks ago. This is what the itinerary had us doing—not hiding under a desk.

"I think you can come out now," she says. Peeta stands up, stretches out and peers out the glass window to the lobby.

Peeta nods at me that it's okay. I peek out and see only familiar faces: the prep team nearby in case my nose needs powdering or Peeta's forehead needs more concealer_; _the camera crew, Haymitch, Johanna, even my mother who gives me the subtlest wink. I give a shy wave to her.

"There you are," Cressida exclaims. "Effie's off looking for you," she glances at Peeta "in the kitchen."

Delly show us to the door to the lobby of the permits area. Cressida motions for us to come over. She wants to get the short segment we were supposed to do here over with quickly before any of the other crews come back.

Peeta signs the first of the forms and hands it to Delly. "Lucky you have friends in the District," Peeta grins at Cressida. The press permits should help for later—when we don't want them to film. Especially when we're friends with the keeper of the permits.

Delly smirks as she stamps it.

Then it's on to more paperwork. The crew wants to film the functions of what happens in the building and since one of its functions is permits, what better volunteers than two former victors who planned on getting a business license and a hunting license anyway.

Each with a clipboard, Peeta and I look over the forms, signing here, there.

Peeta is absolutely beaming with pride. I feel a blush coming on as I check the sign and I hug the form closer to my chest when a camera moves a little too close. Delly's having trouble controlling her giggles, but I knew she was excited about this day.

"Everything looks in order," she grins when we hand all the paperwork back. Stamp. Stamp. Stamp. And just like that, it's done.

#

The group heads off to film a segment on the new community-friendly security office. Cressida hurries ahead wanting to setup the best possible shot, while I stay back, trailing my finger over the smooth new walls. Mother lingers in the lobby of Delly's office, smiling then pursing her lips like she wants to say something but can't. Before I can even get there, Peeta is at her side with his elbow looped through hers. He helps her up and mother takes a second to straighten his hair and say something to him that I can't quite make it out, but it makes him smile furiously and touch his hand to his heart.

Mother looks at me—all makeup and too dressy clothes—and she shakes her head. "I can't stay," she announces, her voice cracking and her eyes wandering to the crew in the distance, her feet, the window.

"Really?" I ask. She's been in town less than a day. She came in last night. And in all the whirlwind of activity I was really looking forward to seeing her tomorrow when there wasn't a flurry of checklists and out-of-town guests.

She nods, clutching at a small backpack in her hands.

"You're sure you don't want to stay for tonight?" Peeta tries to persuade her.

Mother looks at me like I'll understand.

"And miss all the fun?" I say in a mock-upbeat voice. But maybe she has the right idea and I wonder if I can ask to tag along on her getaway.

Peeta stays with a more practical route when she doesn't budge. "Just go home and come back later for the party. Effie's hired a band. There's food. Everyone is coming."

Mother shakes her head. "I got to see you and that's enough." She tucks a stray hair behind my ear. She turns to Peeta and pats his arm.

"I've got to get back to the hospital before they miss me anyway."

Then, there's a pause and I hope she's changing her mind. She digs something out of her out of a small backpack she's carrying. "Let me at least get a picture of you two."

She fumbles a little with the camera. She lacks the precision of our crew, but I don't mind as she tries her best to get the shot. Since no one is looking I even give Peeta a kiss. He blushes and I let out of tiny laugh.

_Stay, _I will my mother. I know it's no use. She won't spend any more time in this haunted place than she has to. All the perky rebuilding plans serve as all too painful a reminder of what exactly what—and who—was lost.

"I brought you this." She hands me an envelope and the backpack she's been fiddling with. "You left your medicines at home and I didn't know how long you'd be here today."

I give her a puzzled look and accept both. I'll read her letter later.

"Take care." The way she says it is both final and hopeful. She throws her arms around Peeta and me. "Maybe I can see you again soon?" And mother hurries away before I know what to make of all of it.

#

Effie's schedule has been thrown off by 40 or so minutes so she's not happy, but we have the whole day to make it up. Still, the lunch break doubles as makeup touchup and editing time for the crew.

I slip away, needing a moment to clear my head, to take a few breaths and try not to be overwhelmed by all of it. But as I round a corner, I run smack into something—hard. I look down and see huge black boots and realize I've crashed into the chest of an overly-muscled guard.

_Really, Effie?_ I think. I would have been back in 10 minutes. It's not necessary. But still he grabs my arm. And despite all of these months terror floods through me.

"Katniss Everdeen, I was just looking for you," comes a voice I think I've heard before though I didn't think I knew any of the district's newly arrived security officers.

There's not overtones of blatant hostility, so slowly I look up to see an earpiece, a flat-top haircut and a guard I've met exactly once before.

It's the same man who came to check on me after the paparazzi announced I wasn't in the district. He's still wearing his black uniform with a presidential insignia on it and now I get the same foreboding feeling as the last time he visited.

He motions me into a small room and suddenly I realize Effie didn't send him after me. And maybe I'd rather face her shrill wrath than whatever inquisition awaits me. Obviously this matter goes well beyond wandering around the new building, or even security at a district level. And it seems that the steam coming out of Effie's bejeweled ears for whatever this does to her jam-packed schedule is going to be the least of my worries.

It's a meeting room. Paperwork is in folders on the table, and I'm face-to-face with Dr. Aureilus.

He wouldn't come here unless it was absolutely necessary. And since I've made my court-mandated check-in phone calls and have generally been behaving myself, it must be about Peeta. And it must be bad enough that Peeta didn't want to tell me himself.

"Is he okay?" are the first words out of my mouth.

Dr. Aurelius cocks his head to the side. "Peeta's no worse," he says stoically. "How are you?"

He switches straight into therapy mode and I try to remember my last session with him.

"Okay," I answer, slightly panicked. Not being hauled away kicking and screaming seems like a good start so I pull up a chair across from him and wait for the news.

Peeta has to go back to the Capitol for good. He's too unstable out here and I was fooling myself thinking I could take care of him. As many good days as he has, inevitably the flashbacks come. On occasion, his memory still fails him. He'll squint so hard I worry that the scars on his forehead will pop open when he can't find the bakery keys or I gently remind him that plums are not, in fact poisoned.

He fights it. So hard. But Peeta's brain is a battleground of new and false memories. And for the most part, it is out of his system. Except for when it's not.

But it's selfish for me to want Peeta to stay here. He would be safer somewhere with a medical facility. We don't even have a doctor. All we have is a phone line to my mother and the sloppy stitches I give Sae's granddaughter when she cut her hand on a broken green glass bottle outside Haymitch's house.

I know the silence means I'm supposed to tell Dr. Aureilus about how Prim's death affected my morning, but instead I ask him a question. "Does he have to go back?" My stomach sinks.

"We'll get to that. Let's talk about you, Katniss. How have you been doing?" He tries to focus the conversation back to our normal back-and-forth.

"He needs more doctors, doesn't he?" I want to know about Peeta—that has to be why the doctor is here.

When Dr. Aureilus realizes he isn't getting anywhere with me he answers. "It would be good if he were closer to doctors," he says matter-of-factly. "But he has made marked improvement."

I wait for the catch.

"He's not where I expected him to be not even a year after his discharge."

Here it comes.

The doctor takes some papers out of a folder and slides them my direction. It's not treatment plans or medical forms, but copies of letters. Written in slightly twitchy handwriting, the confusion in Peeta's question-filled letters flood back to me. I think back to all of that caution and uncertainty.

"He wanted to come home. He practically begged me every day for weeks. And against my good judgment I agreed." Dr. his fingers together. "And here we are."

I'm almost afraid of speaking aloud while the doctor is in the room. Over the months I've found my voice, realized I could talk to him, tell him about my guilt, self-doubt, the bad mornings, but I didn't have to face him like I do today.

"He was a boy with questions. You gave him answers."

Still I know bad news is coming my way.

"It's what he needed," Dr. Aurelius continues. "You've been an excellent support system for him and all the pills and cerebrum reprograming in the country couldn't help him the way you have."

Dr. Aurelius sounds genuine. He smiles. I nod in disbelief, wondering if it could be true.

Some days, Peeta is blindingly happy. Has a kind of glee so infectious that it chases away the darkest of my moods. He's the pre-Games laughing boy from school, only with an infectious spark in his eyes.

"And you, young lady," he says before his words can even sink in. He then jumps straight into the usual spiel. He asks me questions about my nightmares, energy levels, mornings, moods, whether I'm eating, staying active. We discuss the most recent cocktail of medicines—which I actually take since they don't have me shaking or chucking vases at neighbor boys. He flips through some paperwork, reading, signing, checking the occasional box.

I wait for him to slide a mentally disoriented bracelet on my arm, though I'm not really spending much time in closets these days.

"You've come a long way in our treatment, Katniss. I think that you've gotten over the shock of the war. You're no longer just going through the motions—you're functioning now. With some help, your depression seems to be quite manageable. I'm going to give you an improved bill of health." He stacks the papers neatly, puts them in a folder. "I no longer deem you a danger to yourself or others. But I do recommend that you be allowed to travel for medical care. I will let the officials know immediately."

This, I was not expecting. And while I'm not the girl on the couch anymore, I might have grown, healed since then—the scars are still too pink, there are still too many bad mornings for me to think that I am better. Or really ever will be. But I can try. And I am.

He dismisses me, and as I rise he clears his throat. "And I know about this morning."

I can't be sure, but I think he winks at me before I leave.

Out in the hall, Peeta is waiting his turn. "You okay?" he asks. I wonder if I look as shell-shocked as I feel. I give a slow nod.

"How'd it go?" he asks.

"Good, I think," I finally mumble. Peeta doesn't look worried at all. He looks confident, radiant even. That's the difference when you're not dragged away by a guard.

The hallways are empty at the moment and the cameras don't seem to be lurking so he gives me a peck before going in.

I slouch on the tiled floor outside the small room, trying to make myself as small possible while still keeping an eye on the comings and goings in the nearby atrium.

The door creaks open and Peeta emerges. "What did he say?" I ask.

"Keep with the treatment plan."

I wonder how I'm doing repaying my debt to him, if we're even, if it matters. If he's happy, on track towards being healthy that's what he deserves.

"Now come here," he pulls me behind a giant Grecian column in the atrium now that we've found a few minutes to ourselves. He wraps his arms around me and sweeps me in for a kiss. "I was told to continue my —." And I cut him off right there.

"Peeta."

He nuzzles into my shoulder, always a little too glad to be near.

"Yes, Katniss."

I put my fingers over my lips and he gets that silence is what I want now more than the overly sentimental declarations he always has on the tip of his tongue. So he gets a hug, something both familiar and calming. I could stay here with him and let the day go by. But that will never be allowed, so I open my eyes and get my bearings before the next round of filming.

I look over Peeta's shoulder across the lacquered floor of the atrium, and from a distance it looks like someone I never want to see again. Some days. Other days I miss him. But it's not his walk. It can't be.

Then he turns around and there's no mistaking it.

A quick glance to Peeta and I'm off. I will handle this.


	22. Chapter 22: One Step Ahead

"Gale," I hiss with steel in my eyes. In no time, I've covered the ground between us.

He wobbles slightly, trains his eyes on me, then searches for the closest exit. "Katniss," he acknowledges a bit too loudly after a pause.

Murderer. Child killer. I can't think about that right now. I push the unwelcome thoughts out. He's here. There's no avoiding him. I'll handle it now before I lose all control, which when the camera crew arrives, undoubtedly I will. This way it will be on my terms. I cross to the wall where's he's brooding, arms across his chest, looking generally tortured.

"Why are you here?" I accuse. This trap maker was expressly not invited to the event. I saw to it myself: making sure that the Hawthornes' invitation very plainly said Hazelle, Rory, Vick and Posy. No one else.

He gives me a crooked smile. "Am I embarrassing you, Mockingjay?" he taunts like he wants the whole lobby to hear our conversation. "Not good enough to be your _cousin_? To come to this pretty little party?"

His face his flushed, but not because he's blushing at me. Then I smell him. He smells like Haymitch, but dunked in aftershave.

The only one he'll embarrass is himself. Maybe Hazelle. If he tries to go down the path that Haymitch blazed so brightly.

"No," I choose my words carefully. "I just don't think you'll like what's going to happen tonight."

"It's a District 12 celebration," he holds his ground, as after all these years he is all too used to my venom. "I belong here." He grabs at the wall—not to claim his spot in the new building, but because he's unsteady on his feet.

_Someone started celebrating early,_ I mutter.

When no one is looking, I open the supply closet door and shove him in. This, I'm handling privately, without Gale announcing our feud to the televised world.

"Do you know what they're planning tonight?" I ask him. Does he know what he's walking into? And is it as widely known as I think it is that Effie wants this to be an engagement party?

"Sure," Gale sways. "A fancy-schmancy ribbon cutting. Plutarch invited me himself. Told me you weren't going to be here. Says I'm getting a medal for saving all those people." Then he taps his pocket. There's a metallic sound that lets me know where he's stowed his liquid courage.

"Me, a hero?" He slumps over a little. "Bet you don't think that?" he leers over towards me, obviously expecting a reaction.

"You here to crash my party?" He lowers his gaze, leans in dangerously close. "To set the record straight?"

"You saved a lot of people," I admit softly, referring to one occasion when he saved my family and all the remaining District 12 residents. But that was before the war, his death traps, that day in City Circle—when I lost the one person I'd worked so hard to save. And rightfully or not, I blame him.

Because I don't know whether to scream or cry, whether he's a friend or an enemy—my resolve cracks. And I warn him about the trap he's walking into, that the festivities for tonight might be different than what he was told. It could just be a miscommunication, of course, but I know a gamemaker who values ratings over everything else.

_Do you really want to be here? _I stare at Gale hoping he gets the hint and leaves. I grip his upper arm. "Maybe you should go somewhere and sleep this off?" There's still enough time between now and the formal portion of the program that he could go get cleaned up….decide to leave and not be a part of tonight's media circus.

He wobbles a little and takes more time to piece it together than he should. "Are you engaged?" He looks puzzled.

I scowl at the question. "No. I'm," but I can't finish the sentence.

He furrows his eyebrows. "As in not yet? Or not at all?"

I shake my head, not ready to tell him of all people, not wanting to see what will end up on the wrong side of his fist.

But his face softens—those angry angles relax. His eyes widen and his mouth twists up in a droopy smile that I am completely unaccustomed to.

Slowly, Gale leans in, his head inching toward mine. His eyes close.

And I dart away.

I stand there, stunned for a moment, fists clenched at my side, trying calm the anger roiling through my cheeks.

"Lost my balance." Gale keeps his eyes on the floor and grabs a white bucket from a nearby shelf. I fear the worst and tighten the party dress around me.

Instead Gale flips the bucket over and sits on it.

I breathe a sigh of relief but still edge closer to the door, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. For months I've thought about all the things I wanted to say to him if I ever saw him again. I want to stay, but here, when he's actually in front of me, I realize I don't really know what to say.

So I just look at him, really look at him for the first time in months.

He's got bags under his eyes. It's obvious he was dressed for the occasion. And I can't remember Gale ever being drunk. It must be a tough day for him—especially if he's turned to Haymitch's coping system.

"You look good," he mumbles just to break the silence. And I feel like it's the first honest, heartfelt thing he's said to me all night. "Maybe I didn't screw you up as bad as I thought."

"Peeta." The sound barely escapes my lips. "Peeta helped me through it." I say that part a little louder.

Gale blinks a few times. "Peeta." He chews the word over, kicks at the ground. "Damned floury sissy pants," he mutters under his breath. "He fucking strangled you."

I stare at him, wondering if he really can understand. He's the one who put it so simply, that Peeta is what I need to survive.

"Really?" he asks, like the last months and months of no contact haven't confirmed it. "That's who you picked?"

But looking in those hurt, angry grey eyes, I can tell he's looking for every reason not to accept it.

I nod.

But the nod isn't enough.

"Are they making you do this?" All that rage I remember burns through. He balls his fists, winces, the vein in his forehead throbs. He thinks it can't be my decision.

He's the opposite of Peeta's warmth and good nature—quick to anger, bitter. And that's not what I need.

"We're one step ahead of them," I confess, still slightly uneasy with that flame of anger in his eyes and the firewater coursing through his system.

"What does that mean?" He stands up, moves in closer, looks like he's going to grab my face. I pull away.

"We did it in secret."

"Did what, Katniss?" He looks at me slowly. He knows my language but wants me to spell it out.

I give him as wide-eyed a glance as I can manage.

Nobody really knows. They'll know soon enough. He should know.

He tilts his head ready my next words.

"Got married."

He blinks. That's the only reaction I get from his stone-faced expression. Finally, he nods, processing the news.

We used to be able to sit for hours in silence, waiting for a deer or some other game to wander in range, but these agonizing seconds only remind me how much has changed.

"You're happy?" he asks, faking indifference.

"Yes." Saying it makes me feel a little more confident. "With all the death and destruction we've seen, don't you think it's time?"

Gale shifts his weight back and forth looking as uncomfortable as I've ever seen him. He wraps his hands behind his head. "Some days I just want to go back and do it all over again."

"I know," I tell him. "But you can't look back. You can't."

All the time I spent working on the book taught me that. Sure, there are things I'd do differently, but there's no use dwelling on it.

He stares at me like he's trying to see straight through me. His jaw tightens, his forehead rumples and his eyes search mine, like he's begging me not to hate him. And I honestly don't know what I feel, but I know that we're not the same, that we can't go back to that time of teaching each other twitch up snares and anchor points for a bow. The world is different. While before, we might have been the same, two kids cut out of the same Seam mold, hell-bent on having enough food to survive the winter—that's not who we are anymore. We've made our choices, moved on.

"Any new hunting partners?" I ask just to lighten the heavy, heavy mood.

Gale looks down at his shoes, which are too shiny for anything he would have picked out. He shakes his head.

"Well." I put my hand on his chest. "I hope you find one who calms you down and makes you smile." I turn to leave, to get out of this closet, this dreaded conversation. When my back is to Gale, I add: "And if that doesn't work Johanna thinks you're hot."

As soon as I say that last part I regret it. That's a horrible match: two angry, calculating, scarred people. But Johanna was asking about him over breakfast and who am I to judge? Maybe they are a matched set?

I slip out the door while he's laughing. Maybe at me. Maybe at my ridiculous suggestion. It's still good to hear him laugh.

Prim or no Prim, he should move on. I've caused enough destruction that I shouldn't blame him. That doesn't mean I want him as a hunting partner every Sunday—that's when I miss him the most, but I can't tell him that and still be strong.

I open the door to a blonde eavesdropper who looks entirely too concerned. I sigh. "Nothing to worry about." I look around a little. "Didn't want that ending up on camera somewhere."

"Sure," Peeta says, and gives me an eyebrow that says he wouldn't mind being alone with me in the closest.

Gale exits the closet, and when he sees my company he stands a little taller, puffs out his chest as he sizes up Peeta. I put myself between them and wish that a confrontation doesn't happen. I hold my breath as he walks past and makes a point to _accidentally_ shoulder Peeta.

"Take care of her," he slurs, courage from the sauce back.

Peeta straightens his back, stands to his full height. Gale has a few inches and at least 30 pounds on Peeta. Peeta could let it go, but he doesn't. "What do you think I've been doing?" It's no under-his-breath mutter. It's loud and an accusation. "While you've been off playing hero, I've been taking care of her. You made your choice."

Gale stands there momentarily stunned, before bumping into and cursing at an in-the-way column. I let out a breath when it appears no punches will be thrown, at least at people. Columns can fend for themselves.

"There you are!" Effie clacks around the corner and claps her hand like an overly excited toddler. Gale is obviously not a surprise to her.

She gives him one up and down look and tightens her plastered on smile. "Let's get you some food." She heads off to the kitchen, obviously all too used to making inebriated men from District 12 camera-ready. "Just watch the shoes," she chides him as they slip towards the kitchen.

##

Peeta and I take our posts greeting guests for the next hour or two. It's the first party in rebuilt District 12 and everyone shows up. Those who have already moved back show up tanned and smiling in their cleanest clothes, the dirt from their gardens scrubbed away. Those who have decided to relocate to other districts come whispering to each other about the row of new buildings across the way and how welcome the town square feels without armed peacekeepers stationed every few paces. Even a few representatives from other parts of the country come: businessmen assessing the land and labor pool, socialites just wanting to be seen on the evening news. I even see a few Mockingjay tie tacks and necklaces and don't know what it all means.

Peeta graciously asks about loved ones and makes small talk look effortless. I shake hands and whisper any names that Peeta may have forgotten, adding my own few words here and there to the families I know.

We're chatting with a former miner about his corn crop and his family's recipe for cornbread when a hand grabs me by the shoulder.

"Katniss, Peeta. There you are," says a gamemaker I could go a lifetime without seeing again. I had hoped that his singing show would keep him busy, but with my prep team here I should have known he would arrive, throwing fireballs into our plans.

I flash Peeta a panicked look. His eyes mirror mine.

"How are my two favorite Victors?" His smile is too wide to be genuine.

"Fine," I rub at my arm nervously.

"I heard your show was going so well," Peeta says. "However did you get away?" It's part charming comment, part invitation to leave.

"It wasn't easy, but for you, I came as soon as I could," he ushers us inside the celebration. His presence means this is expected to be a big ratings draw—so big that he doesn't trust his staff.

Plutarch motions us towards the cameras inside. "Now, come, come. We have some big announcements."

I scuff my flimsy heels on the floor, drawing the moment out, hoping we won't have to go through with this spectacle even though I know better.

"The whole country is waiting to see you two," he urges, glancing at his watch. They were hesitant to do anything live again after last time, but a taped delay wouldn't do for Plutarch. He dials up the smile, forehead artificially frozen in place, lips stretched and gums bared.

He needs us to be the starcrossed lovers, not tour guides spouting facts, to make the country feel better about District 12 being wiped off the map. He needs romance, intrigue, our specific brand of tragedy with just a dash of hope and heroics. Most of all, he needs us to be interesting. We've been agreeable enough today, but have failed thus far to give the cameras the hand-holding, the kissing, the startling revelations he's used to.

He ushers us through the gregarious crowd into the transformed ballroom. Tables of food line the walls. Drinks are flowing and people are laughing. The hired band even has children and couples on the dance floor. Haymitch has taken his station by the bar and offers Effie a blue-green concoction he just finished mixing up.

I watch the room, the people's faces as they pick food from the buffet tables, laugh at each other's jokes and guffaw in a way I wouldn't have thought possible while wandering grey hallways a year ago.

We don't head toward the merriment, but to the platform in the front of the room. The lonely head table is decked out in starched white napkins that seem more formal than inviting. I'd like to be on the dance floor, listening to Peeta's happy musings, spinning, twirling—being breathless from an uptempo reel, not climbing yet another dreaded stage.

Peeta puts his hand reassuringly on the small of my back, a gesture that doesn't go unnoticed by the former head gamemaker.

Plutarch steps to the podium and begins an official government speech about rebuilding around the country and how glad the government is to officially have a new base here. He wraps his speech up by introducing us—because well, other than Haymitch, we're the only people here he cares to know. But he extols our praises as consummate survivors and upstanding citizens in a new nation—Peeta for doing his civic duty as a businessman, me for not blowing anything up yet. I wasn't really listening that closely, so he might have said that last part, but I am sure assassinations—televised or not—were not mentioned.

Peeta politely helps me up from my chair so that we're once again in that dreaded spotlight. This is the part of the ceremony they've tried to keep from us, assuring it us that it was just the usual brief remarks. Effie claims we are just supposed to put a face on the rebuilding. But that's not the rumor that got back to me. Because of the tabloid reports that Peeta was ring shopping during his recent trip to the Capitol, they expect it to be more dramatic.

Our lines are rehearsed, unspectacular. Afterwards there's the video montage with an obvious romantic story line.

"So Peeta, my boy." Plutarch claps his hand on Peeta's shoulder.

There's something uncomfortable about him as he stands here. While he's been giving more and more speeches lately, he's used to being behind the cameras, being the one to tell an assistant to press the button. But he's here attempting to banter with Peeta.

We've been here before, though, and this time I won't be the one shocked.

Plutarch clears his throat. "Peeta, do you have something to ask Katniss?"

Peeta gets a big grin on his face and surveys the crowd. The room goes silent. Glasses return to the tables. This is it. The secret is out.

Plutarch winks, eggs Peeta on. The camera crew gets in position; microphones are stabbed toward him.

Peeta flashes just for me. "No," he says calmly.

"Come now," he says. "You two are inseparable. You should ask her."

It won't be the end of the Victory Tour all over again.

"Why?" I ask bluntly, no longer playing by his rules.

Plutarch raises an eyebrow in disbelief, not sure how to react.

Peeta keys up his lapel microphone "What exactly am I supposed to ask?" He gives a made-for-TV dramatic pause before finishing, "My wife."

Plutarch turns a shade of green that makes him look like he's been seeing Octavia's skin dyer. His assistant brings him a tiny pill. He attempts to gulp it down with a glass of water but his hands are trembling.

He turns his microphone off and leans in to Peeta. "What are you talking about?"

Peeta whispers the secret in Plutarch's ear.

Plutarch shakes his head angrily. "That's really not possible."

Peeta's dimples come out. I bite my lip.

"Unless." Plutarch takes a step back.

"This morning," I nod. Peeta flashes the small piece of paper stamped with the District's new seal. Neatly tucked in with all of the permits we applied for was something else.

Plutarch grits his teeth stares us down like he regrets the day that hovercraft pulled one of us out of the wrecked arena. There goes his television special.

This way the announcement is on our own terms—without the threat of dresses that weigh more than I do or wedding officials wearing blinking suits that use up more electricity than a house in the Seam.

The form-signing might not have had the glamour of a nationally-produced extravaganza, but Delly's overeager smile, the familiar faces and the usual amount of secrecy made it ours.

I clutch at Peeta's hand, as if to silently validate the statement. We're in this together.

Plutarch recovers and laughs like it's just some big joke.

"Aren't you two full of surprises," he whispers, then clinks his wine glass with a fork and turns the microphone back on. "Ladies and gentleman, please join me in congratulating Mr. and Mrs. Peeta Mellark on their recent union."

Plutarch raises a toast. I see his mouth move but I don't hear the words. Instead, I hear gasps, clapping, the sound of a waiter's drink tray crashing to the ground. Above it all I hear Haymitch shouting, "It's about damn time."


	23. Chapter 23: Not Scared

**Chapter 23: Not Scared**

**Here it is folks, the end. A very sincere thanks for taking this journey with me. I started this story before I knew what fanfiction was. Now, with hundreds of readers, I'm finishing my very first novel length story. So thanks for all of the kind words, support, prompts to update and for giving me to motivation to finish.**

**(Slag)Heaps of thanks to Solaryllis and Medea Smyke for proofreading, making me rewrite things that made absolutely no sense, listening to my daily whining and NOT letting me quit.**

**Will there be a sequel? Most likely not, but never say never. **

**(The story starts back with a flashback right after the scene with Plutarch)**

* * *

_It all starts when Delly comes back District 13. In awe of sunshine and wonderstruck at being home, the girl can't stop smiling. She takes dinner with us in the evening, and stays to chat about everything from trying her first piece of fresh watermelon to the new stamps that just came in for the permits office._

_She brings her books over one night to answer a business question Peeta has and tells him he can look it up while she dangles a piece of yarn in front of Buttercup._

_Peeta flips through the book and settles on a page and gets the most starry-eyed look on his face. When he catches my glance, he grins back and quickly turns the page. "Katniss, did you know you can get a license to hunt?"_

_He's almost too cool in his response, so when he gets up to get a glass of water, I wander towards the book and steal a look at the previous page. _

_I should have known: marriages licenses. _

_It would be the most logical step. Still I keep my face unknowing when he comes back to the table. _

_While we all still live in fear, Peeta's nightmares of losing me have manifest in some strange notion that one wrong step will be his undoing, that everything—happiness and sanity—could unravel with one wrong word, one wrong question to me._

_Most days that's simply not the case, but some days one wrong word is all it takes for my heart to race, my head to spin, my breathing to quicken in a fit of rage. Or despair. There are those days too. But, it's a knotted and twisted thread that unwinds slowly while still threatening to snap without notice._

_For days, he doesn't bring it up, not wanting to risk it. All the while I know it's coming, that he wants to ask**. **_

_He comes to the bedroom one night with a piece of paper in his hand. It could be one of his sketches, an invoice for the bakery, a letter from my mother, but by the way he looks at me I know exactly what it is._

"_What's that?" I ask, wondering if it's up to me to broach the topic._

"_Just one of those never-ending forms." He sets it down on the dresser where I can't quite make it out. _

_He goes to get under the covers but pauses __to give me a puzzling look with his forehead rumbled and eyes an expectant blue._

_I concentrate on the end on my braid, pretending to be more nonchalant than I actually am in the moment_. _It's almost absurd the care he takes around certain subjects. Sometimes I wish he wasn't so cautious with me. I just want to scream at him that I can handle it, that I'm not that fragile. _

_But I can be._

_And I hate it._

_With him, however, there's no going back**. **If taking this final step might somehow lessen his fears that this life we've created together could come to a sudden and abrupt end, then I'll do it gladly._

"_I love this," he finally says. "Being here with you."_

_My cheeks flush and I give him a shy glance._

"_This is what I wanted," he continues._

"_More," he adds nervously. "I love having you in my life, being able to call you mine—even if it's just behind these doors."_

_And I know what's coming. "With the permits office opening up, and Delly working there, it might be nice to." He bites is lip, cutting off his words, doubting himself. And I find his nervousness entirely too endearing. "She can keep a secret," he starts again. He wipes his hands on the sheets, trying to work past that fear. "If you ever wanted to." _

"_Yes," I kiss him before he can even get the whole question out, tell me he loves me a hundred different ways or make some elaborate speech that makes me feel incredibly undeserving. The gleam in his eyes is the only love letter I need. _

"_Really?" It comes out a high-pitched mix of relief and disbelief._

"_Let's make it official," I tell him. _

"_Are you sure?" he says ever so slowly, like I don't understand, like I couldn't understand what it would mean to him._

"_I don't want to be without you," I say, my voice shaking more than I want it to. I don't know how to say these things, not like he does. I don't know how to make it sound grand or romantic. _

_I owe this boy every happiness. Any small thing I can do, form I can sign._

"_It's just a piece of paper," he cautions like he's worried it's too much for me, that I won't want the strings attached, that I'm tired of being a marionette to anyone—the Capitol, the new government, even to him. But I saw the glint in his eye when he was looking at the form._

_So I take the thick memory book from the nightstand. I flip to an empty page towards the back. "It could go right here," I motion. There's an empty page after the picture of Annie's baby boy. "It can be our proof that things can be good again."_

#

Peeta and I sneak off into the shadows.

"They know," I swallow.

"They knew anyway," he grins.

It's true. We haven't really been a secret, not in District 12 at least. But here, we're all survivors and they kept the secret, too.

On the podium, Plutarch finishes his speech by announcing the groundbreaking for the new medicine factory. That's the good news for everyone in attendance.

When that part of the ceremony is complete the gamemaker turned bureaucrat makes his way over to our corner. "You two…." He shakes his head. "Always keep me guessing."

"And that's precisely why you love us so." Peeta dials the charm up to an impossible-to-resist level.

At that Plutarch smiles, nod and overall looks less likely to skin us alive.

"This calls for a wedding gift," he booms, and I want to tell him to keep it down. "What can I get you?" Plutarch calls his assistant over to take notes. "Nevermind, I know. Call Dr. Perpolio and make them appointment for body buffs. Perfect. Settled."

He looks so self-satisfied. He must not know we were told they couldn't help with our scarring. It's simply too bad, with not enough salvageable skin. But of course he wants us looking our best.

"Actually there is one thing," I tell him. Peeta shifts uncomfortably.

"Anything for the Mockingjay," he promises with eyes shining.

"Privacy."

"Write that down, Fulvia," he dictates.

"What store is that from?" he says blankly. "Only the best, of course."

"Privacy," I repeat.

Peeta catches on and fills him in. "We'd really like not to live out our lives on TV. The Games and the war are both over."

Now, Plutarch's mouth hangs open. I expect baby gurgling noises to spew out at any second.

"Let me put it in your terms. We're retiring." I plaster on my tightest Capitol smile. "After tonight, no more cameras, no more specials unless we want to."

Fulvia, with silver flowers edged along her plump cheeks, scribbles furiously on a jewel encrusted blue clipboard.

"Of course," Plutatch bellows like it was his idea. "Fine idea. Go out with one last hurrah."

Then he whispers to his assistant: "Comeback special."

We've had enough cameras. We just want to live our lives like anyone else. We're just not that interesting. While I do appreciate having an archive of some of my memories, I'll be happy to leave the public eye.

And while Plutarch is happily brainstorming future TV specials, Peeta takes my hand and whisks me out of the ballroom. The cameras are still trained on the speeches, so no one notices.

He pulls me into the hall's massive kitchen. Everything is shiny, stainless steel and smells new. I give Peeta an arched eyebrow. I am hungry, but there's a buffet and plenty of food being passed around at the party. There's such promise in his eyes that I know he's not thinking about watching the shipped-in cooks decorate pastries.

"I made you something," he says bashfully.

I follow him over to a large white box. This must be what he was working on at the bakery yesterday—before all the guests arrived and this circus began.

He lifts the lid revealing a wedding cake: tiny but ornate. It's not the tiered one wheeled into last fall's ocean-themed wedding, but I can see all the time he put into it.

The cake is decorated, but not with traditional rows of swirls and flowers. Each tiny flourish is different. I see red ribbons, two loaves of bread, a bright yellow dandelion, a reaping bowl.

"Peeta?" I look back at him, my mouth agape.

He turns up the corner of his lip, revealing the smallest dimple. "I wanted to make you a wedding cake," he says. "And since today it's official, here it is. Do you like it?"

I try to pretend that it's just something in my eye, but Peeta knows better.

I continue scanning every detail of the cake: _hot chocolate mugs, ropes, a TV came_r_a._

A year ago I wouldn't have thought this possible. His memories of me were a convoluted mess, something that made his hands twitch, made him mumble obscenities to himself, made the vein on his forehead bulge in anger. But this, I can tell, he did with steadfast devotion.

_Flowers, a sword, arrows, a tree, a cave, a picnic, berries_—all frosted in the most intricate detail. The memories all flood back to me, the way the lamb stew tasted in that damp cave.

_Lovers roses, train cars, a beach, a pearl, a locket, a lightning bolt, syringes, a mockingjay, a question mark, a book, a house and finally bread._ It's our story.

And seeing this, seeing that he remembers all those little moments in how we've come to grow together—it's a gesture sweeter than any sugary creation ever should be.

He clears his throat and takes my hand.

"Katniss Everdeen, I have loved you since I was five-years-old and first heard you sing. I admired from a distance when we went to school together. And fate brought us together in the Hunger Games. You brought me back to life, risked your life for mine and saved my life so many times I've lost count. We made it through a second Hunger Games, both going in with the intention of the other surviving and I loved you even more than I thought possible. And maybe the odds were in our favor, because we both survived a war and I got to fall in love with you all over again: hearing you sing in the bathtub, you taking care of me when I was sick, bringing me hot chocolate when I was sad, putting up with my flashbacks, holding my hand when I had nightmares, writing notes on my arm to help me remember home, keeping me company when I didn't want to be alone, and constantly reminding me of all the beautiful memories we had together, have together and will have together. Thank you for putting me back together, for helping me remember who I am. You are so much stronger than you realize."

I don't know what to say. I think I knew that was how he felt. But hearing him say it does odd things to my eyes and chest.

"I love you," I whisper into his ear, saying those rare and dangerous words that I have to push myself to admit that I'm braver than. But this must be what it is. "I love you," I say again, confidence burning through me. It's overwhelming, really.

"And I love this cake," I say just to break the tension weighing down the space between us. "Does it taste as good as it looks?"

#

As much as I would like to hide out in the kitchen all evening, they'll come looking for us soon, so we head back to the party. We get as far as the hallway before we see them swarming around another Victor. They have Johanna cornered.

"Of course I knew," she sneers into the microphones. "How could you not know?"

Or maybe she has them cornered?

But I get my hopes up too soon. We're spotted. Instantly, their attention shifts.

"Is it true?" A tangerine-haired reporter stabs a microphone at us as crews holding lenses and lights pack around us, backing us against the door.

We're cornered, trapped, in an almost indefensible position. I take a breath and refuse to let this nightmare get to me. Not today.

But before I can even come up with a plan, Cressida elbows her way through the throng. "Nice try, sweetie," she scoffs. "This is our story." She motions away the gossip crews who have shown up for the festivities. Pollux puffs up his already broad shoulders for emphasis.

"They are our crew," I shrug at the crush of people and follow Cressida back to the sound booth we used earlier in the day.

"More interviews?" I ask when we're inside, away from the jostling crowd and the questions that I'm sure I don't want to answer. We've been on camera most of the day, so one more round would make sense. And Cressida's questions wouldn't be so bad. She and Pollux are friends. Their letters weren't just to secure the next interview; they were concerned.

"I thought you'd just want to hide out for a while." Cressida plops down on a hard black case used to transport the audio mixers. I think it's the first I've seen her rest all day. At lunch she ate a sandwich standing up while editing the footage.

Pollux begins to disassemble the filming lights. Peeta takes that as a cue to drape himself across my lap and take a nap. I reach down and muss up his hair. What a day it's been.

I try to get my bearings and notice that behind some stored scaffolding, the room has an exterior door. I gently lower Peeta's head and rise to look out the tiny glass window. Outside is the ghost town I'm used to. Everyone is inside: eating celebratory food, drinking bubbly drinks and telling exaggerated versions of war stories. And at that moment, I know just how to make my escape. We could go now, and risk getting spotted but I have a better idea.

I quietly tell Cressida part of my plan.

"A grand idea," she says and begins setting up for what I hope will be our last shoot.

Cressida starts with the usual Q&A.

"How are you two doing today?" she begins innocently enough.

"Just wonderful." Peeta pats my leg. "I couldn't be happier to be here with my wife."

I gulp at that statement. It's such a balancing act. I don't want to give anything away, but this has to be interesting enough to keep the audience's attention.

"Your wife?" Cressida questions.

"Yes, we signed the papers this morning—figured it was about time to make things official."

"How lovely."

"Why today?" she says after a pause.

"Today was the first day we could get a permit," he answers.

"Couldn't wait, huh?"

"Actually, I waited 13 years," Peeta says. "Do you think that's long enough?"

Cressida gives a chuckle at this. And I love how relaxed Peeta is about all of this, how he always knows the right thing to say.

"What about you Katniss?" She startles me back to reality, and reminds me that I can't let Peeta expertly handle the questions with charm and humor. She's interviewing both of us. "What are you thinking?"

My eyes go wide and I don't even know where to begin.

"About today," she clarifies. "It's an awfully big day for you."

"We've had a lot of big days," I deflect before reminding myself to be pleasant. "But it's really nice to see District 12 coming back to life."

"But what about this morning? Surely you're excited about that?" She brings it right back to the topic I was avoiding. As much as I don't want to talk about us, she's right. Teenagers' secret weddings is much more salacious than the rebuilding efforts that are ever-present on the evening news.

I have to push myself to say something about our relationship, because I know I should—otherwise there's no point to this filming. Cressida even says that years from now, when we're wrinkly and stooped over, we can use this footage to remember this day. And since Peeta's memories seem far more fragile than he would ever let on, it would be wise to have a record of this day, a love letter for all the doubt and confusion his bad days bring.

"I never planned on getting married." I wring my hands in my lap, not wanting to face the camera. It comes out more honestly than I intend to. "Before."

"With the games, the old regime," I look behind the camera to Pollux when I say this. "Surviving was hard enough. But today, I think there's more to it, more than just surviving and maybe, if given a chance for peace, I'd like to think that we could thrive. Today for example, is about starting over. New beginnings."

Making this big step, that doesn't really seem like that big of a leap in this moment. It feels like we've landed long ago, but have taken this long to find our bearings.

"So why get married?" Cressida asks point blank.

"Because we can," I say. "Because it makes sense."

"Why Peeta?" she coaxes me, making me explain myself to get the sound bite she needs.

"Because I need him." I revert to speaking in code. I could say it, but he knows what I mean. And I do need him.

"What about him?" she continues to prod, lead me to the point she thinks I should make.

"He's really helped me," I offer up. And after this morning's session with Dr. Aurelius I want him to know what he means to me. Because everything else seems to be on camera, this might as well be too.

"He's someone I can always count on to keep me safe. He puts up with me through hiding spots and fits of rage, and the days when it was all too much. He makes me take my pills. He puts up with Buttercup. He was there for me when no one else was, going through this with me." Each word I say, I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I'm better off with him around and he's better off with me around. I look up at him and bite my lip. I think back to those awful days before he showed up. "You gave me a reason to live again." I say this so quietly that maybe the microphones won't pick up. "You gave me hope. A smile. Bread."

And it's odd how saying this makes me feel. I thought I'd want to cringe with embarrassment, but I feel lighter getting the words out, feel like I owe him a little less.

He gives my hand a squeeze.

"That's only part of what I love about him," I pipe up. _Love._ I say it. Truly meaning it for the first time in any of these interviews. Love. Need. Want.

Cressida doesn't miss a beat. "So Katniss, tell me, when did _you _fall in love with Peeta?"

I swallow some nerves. I took a while to realize how I felt and I can't tell you the precise moment it started but somewhere along the line—those primrose bushes, those eyelashes, the way he keeps the nightmares away, the way he needs me—it all got to me.

"So many times," I say.

She motions for me to keep going, but I keep my lips sealed. She doesn't need to know that maybe he did bake his way to my heart. Sheer will and heroic determination didn't hurt either. Some secrets taste better unshared. More of our secrets have been spilled than I would like, but it's better this way. No weeklong extravaganzas or countrywide dress voting. Just a few words on camera.

Cressida signals that we're done. She stands up, straightens her clipboard full of notes. "Where was that girl last year?" Cressida balks.

Ah, Cressida, I wouldn't want to impress you too much. So I look her straight in the eye and say, "Lost."

With that, I'm hoping this never-ending day is finally wrapping up. My hair hurts I'm so tired and all I want to do is sleep for a few days. But before I can do that we have to get out of here—without being mobbed by the throng of press that has descended on our district.

After Cressida leaves, I wait by the exit for her signal.

When I hear the ballroom erupt into cheers and I push the door open, hoping it doesn't immediately trigger flashing lights and blaring sirens. But when nothing happens, I motion Peeta outside. The fall air is crisp with a hint of smoke. This tiny taste of freedom is really a thrill.

I flatten Peeta against the side of the building and wait in the shadows until I'm sure our path is clear. We make it to the next eave, which takes us closer to the ballroom, where we'll look more like a couple leaving early than newlyweds desperately fleeing the media onslaught.

Just as I'm about to inch forward, the ballroom's exit opens. I hold my breath hoping it's not a camera crew coming to look for us.

At first, just the silhouette is visible. It's a couple. A tall broad-shouldered man and a slim woman in a gown. He's staggering and she's talking loudly. "Ugh, it makes me want to vomit." And the voice carries to our hiding place is unmistakably Johanna's. "So damn sappy."

But her complaint is actually a good sign. It means Cressida is playing our hastily recorded video. So while the crowd is watching it and the reporters and photographers are waiting on us to emerge after the video, we'll be making our escape.

The couple steps into a shaft of light and then I get my first glimpse of Johanna's sloshed companion. Gale.

He has his hand looped around her waist for more than support. Together they stumble and laugh when she drops one of the heels she's carrying. He crouches down to pick it up. When he hands it back, she shoves him against the side of the building.

I put my hand over Peeta's mouth to stifle the sound of his laugh, but I can't tear my eyes away from my old hunting partner and former roommate pawing at each other in the shadows.

They stumble off towards the Victor's Village and only then can I breathe. But it's not just fear of being discovered that knocks the wind out of me. Johanna had it bad for Gale and I practically forced him on her. It's so different to actually see it, though. I grip Peeta's hand a little harder.

A minute passes and no one else comes into view. I lead Peeta away from the building trying my best to avoid any window light or street lamps as we sneak down.

Only when the turn off for Victor's Village comes, I nudge Peeta the other direction and hope he follows my lead.

We keep to the darkness, lurk under the burned out light bulbs. As we wait, I glance up at the stars, thinking back to when it was just the two of us—more questions than trust.

_I love you,_ I want to say.

But I know it's not enough.

I feel the warm press of his body and calm my head as I listen to the steady sound of his breathing. His arms circle my waist and if it were any other night, I could stand on my tiptoes on steal a kiss. We could pretend we were any other enamored couple. But tonight, we have to get away.

He kisses the top of my head and I want to tell him not to stop, to just go home, but we can't.

Music carries down the hill from the hall, the wind picks up, but it doesn't mask the sound of someone walking in our direction. It's just one person, so I make myself as small as possible and hope they pass and go on their way.

The gait sounds familiar, but the smell is what really tips me off. All of the fancy soap he's been doused with can't cover up the smell of cabbage and liquor. And tonight he smells of beer and the champagne and I saw him plying Effie with.

"The party's over that way," Haymitch says tersely.

"Just getting some air," I tell Haymitch, not sure if he's come to collect us or hide out himself.

"Is that what we're doing?" Peeta teases mischievously, pulling me closer to him and making my cheeks flame.

Haymitch snorts and rocks back on his heels. "Really, the party's not that bad," Haymitch muses. "Well, once you get Effie good and tipsy and she stops shouting at the waiters."

I smirk at the thought of his undermining her meticulously detailed evening. But it was a good party, and Effie did seem to be enjoying herself more as the evening wore on.

"The fiddlers seemed to go over well," Peeta says. "It was nice to see all the dancing."

Peeta gives a small dip at the waist. I bite down a chuckle.

"I should probably get back," Haymitch says. "They seem to need a lot of help with the drinks. And someone's got to entertain the guests. _Your guests_." The way he stares at me when he says it clues me that he's saying more than he's going to do more than take advantage of the open bar. "Some one's got to take care of this place," he motions around to the houses, the soon-to-open bakery

He knows what I'm up to. He probably set everything in motion.

"You do that," I say. "Try not to make a scene."

He smiles at me, a real true smile. And for a brief moment I think he's going to say something overly sentimental like 'I taught you well,' but instead he replies, "Why, would I do that?"

"No idea," I deadpan.

Before he stumbles off, I feel like there's something I should say. "Thank you," I say. _For tonight, for everything_. And I give him a peck on the cheek.

He cocks his head and gives me a funny look. The next thing out of his mouth isn't fatherly on endearing, it's a liquor-scented belch.

"Now scram, you two," he clomps Peeta on the back. "Before I change my mind."

I watch Haymitch walk back up to the building and slip back inside

A train's whistle sounds. It won't be long now.

Still the crowd doesn't pour out of the building. I don't know if it's Haymitch or the video, but it's working.

I shuffle Peeta toward the platform when the train screeches to a halt, the metallic scream lingering in the air before finally fading.

The doors whoosh open and I urge him forward. "Come on," I smile and hand him an envelope, the same one my mother handed me earlier in the day. Only it wasn't another sad, dismissive letter—it was a gift. One that was exactly what I needed.

Peeta pulls out two tickets and the note authorizing my travel. He looks at the bag of clothes and medicine my mother brought me and starts to piece together tonight's great escape.

I don't know how long they've been planning it, or how many were involved—Haymitch, my mother, Dr. Aurelius—but just this once, I'm okay with them making the plans. It means that in their own ways, they're still looking out for me.

"Let's get out of here," I say. "Away from the cameras."

Peeta raises an eyebrow, thinks for a minute then nods. "Ok," he agrees. His fingers weave through mine with warmth that never ceases to surprise me. "Where to, Katniss?"

The tickets are open: no destination, no date. And after today's revelation, it's a good time to get out of the district and lay low for a little while. We could go anywhere, tour the rebuilt country, see the sites on our terms. But there's only place where I would want to visit. District Four.

"The beach. It's time we go for a visit."

He gives my hand a small squeeze. "I'd like that."

Always a team, we step aboard together.

I keep my palms on the glass as we pull away. I can see the hall in the distance—still lit up from the party. Revelers linger as they celebrate the district's rebirth. Fireworks set the sky ablaze—dazzling yellow blasts that, from a distance, remind me of fireflies on a warm evening.

And we're in train car. Right back where we started this journey together. District 12 fades out of view as we head towards our next adventure.

This time I'm not scared.

* * *

**Thanks to all of my lovely readers for all of the wonderful reviews. I got more reviews than I ever dreamed possible. And thanks for all of the votes in the Pearl Awards. **

**XOXOX**

**Miss S**


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